Tales From A Date With Thiago Silva

Posted on July 20, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Fluminense : 8 July 2025.

In the report for the match in Philadelphia against Tunis, I penned this closing segment :

“I did say – tongue in cheek – to a few mates “see you at the final.”

Should we beat Benfica, we would return to Philadelphia on Independence Day, and should we win that, who knows.

This rocky road to a possible denouement in New Jersey might well run and run and run.”

First there was the crazy “weather-delayed” marathon match in Charlotte, North Carolina against Benfica. Winning 1-0 until late on, with a goal from Reece James mid-way through the second half, the game was then delayed for two hours due to the threat of lightning with just a few minutes of normal time remaining. I fell asleep and set the alarm for the re-start but watched in horror as Angel Di Maria equalised. I then dropped off again, but was awake to see goals from Christopher Nkunku, Pedro Neto and Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall secure an eventual 4-1 win. The match finished at around 6am on the Saturday morning in the UK.

Next up was a match in the quarter final with a game back in Philadelphia against Palmeiras.

I had been away from work for a fortnight. In that spell, I had watched the game against LAFC from Atlanta on TV in a bar in Manhattan, the two games live in Philadelphia, and now the game in Charlotte on TV at home.

However, before our next match in the US on the Friday, something equally important was happening in my hometown of Frome in Somerset.

And it’s quite a story.

This story, this sub-plot, began on Saturday 2 October 2021 when the usual suspects gathered in our usual hostelry, “The Eight Bells” in Fulham for a home game against Southampton.

“We were joined by friends from near – Ray, Watford – and far – Courtney, Chicago. I first bumped into Ray, who was meeting a former work colleague, at the Rapid friendly in Vienna in 2016. I had never met Courtney before, but he had been reading this blog, the fool, for a while and fancied meeting up for a chinwag. It was good to see them both.”

Bizarrely, the next time that I met Courtney, was exactly two years later, on Monday 2 October, for the away game at Fulham. We gathered together, obviously, in the same pub and it was great to see him once more.

We kept in contact at various times over that season.

Last summer, Courtney contacted me about attending a Frome Town match during an extended visit to see Chelsea play at Anfield on Sunday 20 October. He had obviously noted my support for my local non-league team within this blog and on “Facebook” and fancied seeing what the noise was all about.

As I detailed in the Liverpool match report, Courtney arrived at Manchester airport on the Saturday morning, ahead of Frome Town’s home match with Poole Town, and then drove straight down to deepest Somerset.

“With five minutes of the game played, I looked over and saw Courtney arrive in the ground. I waved him over to where we were stood in a little group at the “Clubhouse End” and it was a relief to see him. Courtney had made good time and was now able to relax a little and take in his first ever non-league match.”

Ironically, the Frome Town chairman had asked, that very week, about extra support for the club, which had been struggling for some time. Over the next few weeks, Courtney spent many hours talking to the Frome Town board.

To cut a very long story short, Courtney became vice-chairman of Frome Town Football Club in December. I next met him when we enjoyed a Sunday lunch in a local village pub and then drove up to the Brentford home game on Sunday 15 December, ending up yet again at “The Eight Bells.”

I last saw Courtney at a Bath City Somerset Cup away game during the following week.

Throughout the first six months of 2025, there have been strong and determined discussions concerning the future of Frome Town Football Club with Courtney at the fore. On Thursday 5 June, at the Town Hall, I attended an extraordinary meeting of the Frome Town Council, who had saved the club a few years earlier through a very generous taking over of all debts, to discuss the release of the land that Frome Town have called their home since 1904. At this stage, all directors and supporters were totally behind Courtney taking over the club.

Unfortunately, the vote did not go Courtney’s way that evening, and we were all crestfallen. There was immediate doom and gloom. A few supporters met outside the steps to the Town Hall after the meeting, and I have rarely been so sad. I feared that Courtney would walk away, and our chance lost. However, the council offered a lifeline, and the chance of another offer, but with greater emphasis on the community aspect of the club, and its buildings and its land.

A second meeting was to be held on the evening of Wednesday 2 July, just two days before Chelsea’s game with Palmeiras in Philadelphia.

I was unable to obtain a ticket to attend but watched the “live feed” of the meeting in “The Vine Tree” pub just two hundred yards from Badgers Hill, the ground at the centre of all the attention.

On a hugely memorable evening, the Frome Town Council, God bless them, approved the sale of the ground to Courtney, now the chairman, and I have rarely been happier. The group of around twenty supporters were joined my more, and several directors, and the management team joined us too.

We were euphoric.

Of course, I had to take a photograph.

It’s what I do, right?

As the voting took place, and with the mood becoming increasingly positive at every decision, I had looked over at the pavement on the other side of the road. During the first few weeks of season 1970/71, I would have walked along that very pavement with my mother, hand in hand I suspect, as a five-year-old boy, on my way to my first-ever Frome Town game, and my first ever football game.

My memory was of just my mother and I attending that game, and of a heavy Frome Town loss.

However, by a bizarre twist of fate, I had bumped into my oldest friend Andy, who used to live opposite me in the five-hundred-year-old street in the same village where I type these words now. I see him very rarely around town but bumped into him on the Sunday before the first meeting back in June.

“I reckon I went with you to your first-ever football game, Chris.”

This caught me on the hop. I knew he couldn’t have been referring to a Chelsea game, so we spoke about Frome Town.

In the summer of 1970, my parents and I stayed in a caravan for a week at West Bay in Dorset. In the next caravan, we met a couple from near Bath, and the husband was to play for Frome Town in the new season. His name was Mike Brimble, and he invited me to his first game at Badgers Hill.

Andy reminded me that and his family were holidaying at Bowleaze Cove, not so far from West Bay, at the same time, and we apparently visited them, though this is long forgotten by me. Amazingly, fifty-five years later, Andy was able to remember that a Frome footballer had invited us to a game, thus backing up his claim that he was with me on that day in 1970.

I think we were both amazed at our memories.

I was amazed that Andy remembered the footballer.

Andy was amazed that I remembered his name.

Fantastic.

With the incredible news about Frome Town buzzing in my head – I think it was utterly comparable to the CPO refusal to accept Roman’s “buy-out” bid in 2011 – all my focus was now on Chelsea and the game with Palmeiras on the evening of Friday 4 July.

I was so pleased that my friends Jaro, and his son, and Joe, and his daughter, were able to go back to Philadelphia, but even more elated that Roma and a family group from Tennessee were heading there too.

It was not lost on me that an English team were playing in Philadelphia on 4 July.

Meanwhile, I was doing some logistical planning of my own, and – should Chelsea be victorious against the team from Sao Paolo – I had squared it with my boss to head back to the US for the semi-final on the following Tuesday and, here’s hoping, the final on the following Sunday.

This was never really in the plan of course. Prior to the start of this tournament, I don’t honestly think that many Chelsea supporters would have given us much hope of getting further than the last eight.

But here we were.

The Friday night arrived, and I got some much-needed sleep before the 2am kick-off.

Sod’s law, the DAZN feed broke up, so I missed Cole Palmer’s opening goal. Alas, I saw Estevao Willian’s amazing equaliser and I wondered how the game, and the night, would finish.

As I tried to stay awake, my eyes heavy, it dawned on me that I loved the way that our boys were playing. We were showing great maturity for such a young team and squad. I began to entertain slight thoughts of winning it all.

Just imagine that.

Sssshhh.

During the last part of the match, I set up my laptop to see if the flights that I had earmarked were still available. My attention was momentarily on that, and I just missed the exact moment when the winning goal ricocheted in off a defender from a Malo Gusto cross. For such a moment, my reaction was surprisingly subdued. But it meant that I now had to leap into action.

I refreshed the flight options.

Within minutes of the final whistle in Philadelphia, I was booked on an ITA Airways flight to JFK via Rome on Monday 7 July. I was out via London City, back via London Gatwick.

For a few moments, my head was boiling over with crazy excitement.

Originally, I had never really planned to return to the US. But three factors came together. Firstly, my friend Dom had offered me the use of his apartment in Manhattan for the week. Secondly, I had just received an unexpected bonus at work. Thirdly, I was owed some holiday from the previous year that I needed to use by the end of July.

I messaged Dom, and we had a fruitful back-and-forth.

I fell asleep, somehow, with dreams of heading back across the Atlantic.

That I celebrated my sixtieth birthday on the Sunday seems as irrelevant now as it did then.

It had been, dear reader, an incredible three days.

Wednesday evening: a stressful day that led to an amazing decision enabling a fantastic future for Frome Town.

Friday night : Chelsea reached the semi-finals of the FIFA Club World Cup and – smelling salts please, nurse – a date with Fluminense, and Thiago Silva, who had defeated Al Hilal 2-1 in their game on the Friday.

On the Sunday, my birthday was very subdued. I wrote up the Tunis match report and planned what I needed to take to New York. I just about had time to squeeze in a lunch at a nearby village pub, the same one that I had taken Courtney in December.

After a relatively small amount of sleep on the Sunday night, I woke at 1am in the small hours of Monday 7 July. This was going to be a ridiculously long day of travel, but this is something that I live for; you might have noticed.

I quickly packed my small “carry-on” bag (to keep costs to a minimum) and I set off at just after 2.15am. As I drove up the A303, I turned on “Radio 2” for some company. The first full song was “Breakfast In America” by Supertramp, how very apt.

I reached my mate Ian’s house at Stanwell, near Heathrow, at 4.15am, and caught a pre-booked Uber to take me to London City Airport at 4.30am, unfortunately the only – expensive – way that I could get to the airport on time. This was a first visit for me and the driver dropped me off outside the super small departure lounge at 6am. There was immediate concern about my ESTA not registering but that was soon sorted. The 8.30am flight to Rome Fiumcino left a little late, maybe at around 9am.

In the back of my mind, there was the niggling doubt that should we lose to Fluminense the following afternoon, in addition to the sadness, there would also be the completion of an annoying circle.

On 4 July 2024, my first game of this ridiculous season featured Fluminense in Rio de Janeiro. Should we lose against them at the MetLife Stadium in New Jersey, my last game of the season would feature them too.

And – maybe just as bad – I would be stuck on ninety-nine live games this season.

Considering these worries, it’s surprising that I managed any sleep on the flight to Fiumcino.

There was to be a three-hour wait at the airport, and this gave me more than enough time to relax, buy a couple of cheap Benetton T-shirts (the spirit of 1984/85 lives on…) and grab a snack and a drink. Unfortunately, we missed our allotted slot and were delayed by almost two hours. We eventually took off at just before 5pm local time.

Thankfully I had a window seat and managed four hours of sleep during the eight-hour flight.

My thoughts returned to Rio last summer. I remembered how amazed I felt as I visited the original Fluminense stadium at Laranjeiras on the very first day.

“I stayed around ninety minutes, fittingly enough, and I enjoyed every second. The terraces are still intact, and the main stand is a lovely structure. I was able to fully immerse myself in my visions of what it must have been like to see a game here. And especially a game that took place on Sunday 30 June 1929, exactly ninety-five years ago to the day.

All those years ago, Chelsea played a Rio de Janeiro XI at Estadio Laranjeiras. The game ended 1-1. Included in the Chelsea team were stalwarts such as Sam Millington, George Smith, Sid Bishop, Jack Townrow and Tommy Law.

I clambered up into the main stand and took photos of the beautiful stadium. It reminded me a little of the fabled Stadio Filadelfia in Turin. I loved the floodlight pylons in the shape of Christ the Redeemer, and I loved the tiled viewing platform, no doubt where the VIPs of the day would watch in luxurious chairs.

Down at pitch side, I spoke to one of the ground staff – a Flamengo fan, boo! – and when I told him about only arriving in Rio that day, and the Chelsea game in 1929, he walked me onto the pitch. There was a frisson of excitement as he told me to look over the goalmouth to my right, to the west. He pointed out the huge statue of Christ the Redeemer atop the Corcovado Mountain. It would be the first time that I had seen the famous statue on the trip.

My heart exploded.

This was a genuine and real “Welcome to Rio” moment.

At this stage, I had not realised that I was visiting Laranjeiras on the exact anniversary of the game in 1929. If I had been told this at that exact moment of time, I surely would have feinted.”

I was over in Rio for nine days, and to my sadness a Fluminense home game had been bumped because of the floods that had hit Brazil earlier that summer. However, typical Brazil, on the third day of my visit I found out that a Fluminense vs. Internacional game had been squeezed in on the Thursday. I was ecstatic. Alas, Thiago Silva was not going to be playing, but at least I would see his team, and my favourite Brazilian team.

“I took an Uber and was dropped off to the north-west of the stadium and I walked into the crazy hubbub of a Brazilian match day.

Street vendors, sizzling steaks, hot dogs on skewers, beer, soft drinks, water, flags, colours, supporters. Replica shirts of every design possible. The Flu fans are based at the southern end and Maracana’s only street side bar is just outside. I bought a Heineken from a street vendor who originally wanted to charge me 50 reais, but I paid 20; just over £3.

My seat was along the side, opposite the tunnel, and I entered the stadium. I chanced a burger and fries in the airy concourse.

Then, I was in.

Maracana opened up before me. Those who know me know my love for stadia, and here was one of the very best.

Growing up in the ‘seventies, the beasts of world football were Wembley, Hampden and Maracana. For me to be able to finally step inside the Maracana Stadium filled me with great joy. Back in the days when it held 150,000 or more – the record is a bone-chilling 199,854, the 1950 World Cup, Brazil vs. Uruguay, Brazil still weeps – its vastness seemed incomprehensible. When it was revamped and modernised with seats for the 2014 World Cup, the two tiers became one and its visual appeal seemed to diminish. Simply, it didn’t look so huge. Prior to my visit this year, I hoped that its vastness – it is still the same structure after all – would still wow me.

It did.

I had a nice seat, not far from the half-way line. Alas, not only was Thiago Silva not playing, neither was Marcelo, the former Real Madrid left-back; a shame.

Fluminense’s opponents were Internacional from Porto Alegre.

It was an 8pm kick-off.

The home team, despite winning the Copa Libertadores against Boca Juniors in 2023, had suffered a terrible start to the season. After thirteen games, Flu were stranded at the bottom of the national league, while the hated Flamengo were top. The stands slowly filled, but only to a gate of 40,000. Maracana now holds 73,139. The northern end was completely empty apart from around 2,500 away fans in a single section. The game ended 1-1 with the visitors scoring via Igor Gomes on forty minutes but the home team equalising with a brilliant long-range effort from Palo Henrique Ganso four minutes into first-half stoppage time. In truth, it wasn’t a great game. The away team dominated the early spells and Fluminense looked a poor team. Their supporters seemed a tortured lot. There were more shrieks of anguish than yelps of joy.”

And yes, I found it so odd that we were up against both of Rio’s major teams in this World Cup competition. I could never have envisaged this while I was in Rio last summer.

The ITA Airways plane landed at a wet JFK at 7.30pm, only half-an-hour late, and I loved it that we arrived via the same Terminal 1 that I had used on my very first visit to the US way back in September 1989. The border control was brisk and easy, and I was soon on the AirTrain and then the Long Island Rail Road once again into Penn Station. It was only just over three weeks ago that Glenn and I were on the very same train.

I quickly caught the subway, then walked a few blocks north and west. I found myself knocking on Dom’s apartment door at around 9.30pm.

It was just over twenty-four hours door to door.

Phew.

There was a lovely warm welcome from Dom and it was a joy to see him once again. After a couple of slices of New York pizza, I slid off to bed a very happy man.

I woke surprisingly early on the Tuesday, the day of the game.

To say I was happy would be a huge understatement.

Here I was, back in Manhattan, staying at a great friend’s apartment for a week, with an appointment with Thiago Silva and Fluminense later that afternoon. Please believe me when I say that I have rarely felt so contented in my entire life.

My smile was wide as I trotted out of Dom’s apartment block at 8.45am. My plan was to head over to Hoboken, on the waterfront of New Jersey, to meet up with a few Chelsea supporters from the UK and the US at 11am at “Mulligan’s“ bar before taking a cab to the stadium. I had time on my side, so I decided to walk through Hell’s Kitchen to Penn Station and take the PATH train to Hoboken just south of Macy’s. First up was a magnificent breakfast at “Berlina Café”

“Take a jumbo cross the water.

Like to see America.”

On my little walk through Manhattan, I spotted around fifty Fluminense supporters, but not one single Chelsea fan. I was wearing my Thiago Silva shirt and wished a few of the Brazilians good luck. I quickly popped in to see landlord Jack at “The Football Factory” on West 33 Street, and saw my first Chelsea fan there, Bharat from Philly. There were a few Fluminense fans in the bar, and they told me that Chelsea now had a great Brazilian. I immediately presumed that they were referring to Estevao Willian, soon to arrive from Palmeiras, but they were referring to Joao Pedro. Unbeknown to me, he began his professional career with Fluminense.

I caught the 1030 train to Hoboken and it took me under the Hudson River. I was in the hometown of Frank Sinatra within twenty minutes.

The morning sun was beating down as I made the short ten-minute walk to the pub, which is run by Paul, who I first met in Baku way back in 2019. My friend Jesus, who I first chatted to on the much-loved Chelsea in America bulletin board for a while before meeting him for the first time at Goodison Park on the last day of 2010/11, was there with his wife Nohelia.

Cathy was there too, and I reminded her that the first time that I ever spoke to her was after she did a rasping rendition of “Zigger Zagger” at “Nevada Smiths” in Manhattan in 2005. This was on the Saturday night before Chelsea played Milan at the old Giants Stadium on the Sunday. Giants Stadium was right next to the current locale of the MetLife Stadium.

A few familiar faces appeared at “Mulligans” including my great friend Bill, originally from Belfast, but now in Toronto. Bizarrely, Emily – the US woman who showed up at a few Chelsea games a few years back and created a bit of a social media stir – was perched at one end of the bar.

Out of the blue, I received a call from my dentist.

“Sorry, I forgot to cancel. I am currently in New Jersey.”

“So, I don’t suppose that you will be making your hygienist appointment either.”

Fackinell.

The pints of Peroni were going down well.

We spoke a little about tickets. I had a brain freeze back in the UK when I attempted to buy – cheaper – tickets via the FIFA App and couldn’t navigate myself around it for love nor money. I panicked a little and ended up paying $141 for my ticket via Ticketmaster.

I would later find out that tickets were going for much less.

Sigh.

The team news came through.

Sanchez

Gusto – Chalobah – Adarabioyo – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Nkunku – Palmer – Pedro Neto

Joao Pedro

A full debut for our new striker from Brighton.

“No pressure, mate.”

Tosin replaced the suspended Levi Colwill.

Folks left for the game. Nohelia, Jesus, Bill and I were – worryingly – the last to leave the bar at around 1.30pm. We headed off to the stadium, which geographically is in East Rutherford, although the area is often called The Meadowlands after the adjacent racetrack. Our Uber got caught in a little traffic, but we were eventually dropped off to the northeast of the stadium. With kick-off approaching, I became increasingly agitated as I circumnavigated virtually three-quarters of the stadium. We were in the southern end, but our entrance seemed to be on the west side.

It’s not a particularly appealing structure from the outside; lots of grey horizontal strips cover the outside of the stadium, all rather bland, nothing unique. Right next to the stadium, which hosts both the NFC Giants and AFC Jets, is the even more horrible “American Dream” Mall, a huge concrete monstrosity with no architectural merit whatsoever.

Eventually I made it in, via a security check, and a ticket check. At least the lines moved relatively fast, but the sections were not particularly well signposted.

I heard the hyperbolic nonsense from pitch side.

At three o’clock, the game kicked off just as I walked past a large TV screen, so I took a photo of that moment.

I was getting really annoyed now; annoyed at my inability to reach section 223, but also at the ridiculous lines of spectators missing the action by queuing up for food and drink.

“Can you fuckers not go forty-five minutes without food?”

At 3.06pm, I reached section 223, mid-level, and I heaved a massive sigh of relief.

I was in. I could relax. Maybe.

Fluminense in their beautiful stripes, with crisp white shorts and socks.

Chelsea again in the white shirts, but with muted green shorts and socks this time.

The two kits almost complimented each other, though this was my third game in the US and I was yet to see us play in blue.

There were a few Chelsea fans around me. I spotted a few supporters from the UK in the section to my left. Three lads with Cruzeiro shirts were in front of me, supporting Chelsea, and we shared a few laughs as the game got going.

The stadium looked reasonably full. The lower tier opposite me was rammed full of Flu supporters.

I always remember that their president was so enamoured with the way that Chelsea behaved during the Thiago Silva transfer that he was reported to say that Chelsea was now his favourite English team and that he hoped one day Chelsea could visit Rio to play Fluminense at the Maracana.

“Will New Jersey do, mate?”

In the first ten minutes, it was all Chelsea, and it looked very promising.

The first chance that I witnessed was a shot from Enzo that was blocked after a cross from Malo Gusto.

We were on the front foot, here, and Fluminense were penned in. There was energy throughout the team.

On eighteen minutes, Pedro Neto was set up to race away after a delicate touch by Joao Pedro. His cross into the box was thumped out by Thiago Silva but the ball was played straight towards Joao Pedro. Just outside the box, at an angle, he set himself and crashed a laser into the top right-hand corner of the goal. Their ‘keeper Fabio had no chance.

What a screamer.

And how we screamed.

GET IN!

What joy in the southern end of the MetLife Stadium.

Blur on the PA.

“Woo hoo!”

I thought back to those Fluminense fans in “Legends” earlier in the morning and their comments about Joao Pedro.

Their thoughts were far different to my dear mate Mac, the Brighton fan.

“Good luck with the sulky twat.”

We continued the good work. On twenty minutes, Pedro Neto was again involved and his cross was headed towards goal by Malo Gusto but Fabio did well to parry.

On twenty-five minutes, in virtually the Brazilians’ first attack of note, German Cano was released and struck the ball past Robert Sanchez. Thankfully, Marc Cucurella – ever dependable – was able to scramble back and touch the ball away.

I did my best to generate some noise in Section 223.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA! CAM ON CHOWLSEA! CAM ON CHOWLSEA! CAM ON CHOWLSEA!”

But I sang alone.

I was standing, as were many, but maybe the heat was taking its toll. Our end was pretty quiet, and the Fluminense fans were much quieter than the Flamengo and Tunis contingents in Phillly.

Then, a moment of worry. From a free kick from their left, the ball was swept in and the referee pointed to the spot, the ball having hit Trevoh Chalobah’s arm.

“Oh…shite.”

Thankfully, VAR intervened, no penalty.

Phew.

On forty-four minutes, a good chance for Christopher Nkunku, but he chose to take a touch rather than hit the ball first time. There was much frustration in the ranks. One of the Cruzeiro lads yelped “primera!” and I understood exactly.

Then, three minutes later, a header dropped just wide.

At the break, all was well. We were halfway to paradise.

I met up with a few English lads in the concourse during the break and decided to leave Section 223 and join them in Section 224A.

I sat alongside Leigh and Ben, and in front of Scott, Paul, Martin and Spencer.

In this half, the Chelsea team attacked the Chelsea end. We began again and it was still the same controlled and purposeful performance. Moises Caicedo fired over the crossbar, and then Cucurella was just wide with another effort.

On fifty-four minutes, Robert Sanchez got down well to save from Everaldo, a substitute.

Soon after, with much more space to exploit, Chelsea broke. Cole Palmer won the ball, and then Enzo pushed the ball out to Joao Pedro on the left. I sensed the opportunity might be a good one so brought my camera into action. We watched as our new striker advanced unhindered, brought the ball inside and, as I snapped, smashed the ball in off the crossbar.

Ecstasy in New Jersey.

There were quick celebratory photos of the little contingent of fans close by.

The worry reduced but although we were 2-0 up, we still needed to stay focussed. In fact, it was Chelsea who carved open more chances. The often-derided Nkunku shot on goal, but his effort was deflected wide.

On the hour, Nicolas Jackson replaced Joao Pedro.

Next, Nkunku was able to get a shot on goal, way down below us, and it looked destined to go in but who else but Thiago Silva recovered to smack it clear.

Twenty minutes remained.

Malo Gusto took aim from distance and his effort curled high and ever-so-slightly wide of the target.

We were well on top here, and I could not believe how easy this was.

I whispered to Leigh :

“We are seeing this team grow right in front of our very eyes.”

On sixty-eight minutes, Noni Madueke replaced Pedro Neto and Reece James replaced Malo Gusto.

Ben went off to get some water; we were all gasping.

Marc Cucurella sent over a lovely cross, right across the six-yard box, but it was just slightly high for all four of the Chelsea players, all lined up, that had ventured forward.

The gate was given as 70,556; happy with that.

On seventy-nine minutes, Jackson robbed the ball from a loitering defender and set off. His low angled shot just clipped the near post, but Palmer was fuming that he was not played in at the far post. Soon after, Jackso forced Fabio into another save.

Two very late substitutions.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Nkunku.

Andrey Santos for Enzo.

There was almost ten minutes of injury time signalled by the referee, but apart from an over-ambitious bicycle kick from Everaldo, the game was up.

The Great Unpredictables were in the World Cup Final.

From my point of view, the gamble had paid off.

As “Blue Is The Colour” and “Blue Day” sounded out through the stadium, and as the Fluminense players drifted over to thank their fans, there was great joy in our little knot of supporters in Section 224A.

After a few minutes of quiet contemplation, I moved down to the front row and tried to spot anyone that I knew in the lower deck. I saw Alex of the New York Blues, and shouted down to him, and he signalled to meet me outside.

I was exhausted and began my slow descent of the exit ramps. I waited for a few minutes outside but soon realised that meeting up with Alex would be difficult. I slowly walked out into the area outside the stadium. After three or four minutes, I looked to my left, and there was Alex, walking at the same slow pace as me.

What a small world. Alex is a good mate and let me stay in his Brooklyn apartment for the Chelsea vs. Manchester City game at Yankee Stadium in 2013.

As we walked over to the New York Blues tailgate in Lot D, I turned around and spotted some other fans. I recognised one of them from that very game.

I yelled out.

“I remember you. You were stood behind me at Yankee Stadium and we had a go at each other!”

He remembered me, and we both smiled and then hugged. Rich had been berating the fact that he had paid good money to see Chelsea play but the team was full of youth players. I turned around and said something to the effect of “that doesn’t matter, support the team” and he remained silent, but he bashfully now agreed that I was right.

What a funny, crazy, small world.

I enjoyed a few celebratory beers with the New York Blues, and then eventually sloped back with Alex by train to Secaucus Junction and from there to Penn Station. The two of us stopped by at Moynihan Train Hall for more beers – Guinness for me for a change – and we were joined by Dom and his mate Terence and Alon too.

This was just a perfect end to a magnificent day.

We said our goodbyes, but I dropped into “Jack Demsey’s” for a couple more drinks before getting a cab home at 1.30am.

It had been another long day, but one of the greats.

And yes, my gamble had paid off.

I would be returning to East Rutherford, to The Meadowlands, to MetLife on Sunday.

BADGERS HILL, FROME.

LARANJEIRAS, RIO DE JANEIRO.

MARACANA, RIO DE JANEIRO.

METLIFE STADIUM, NEW JERSEY.

Tales From North And South America

Posted on June 29, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Flamengo : 20 June 2025.

The 2024/25 football season began for me on Saturday 29 June when I flew out to Rio de Janeiro and saw three matches in that incredible city. The second game took place on the evening of my 59^th birthday on Saturday 6 July with an entertaining and noisy game between Flamengo and Cuiba at the Maracana Stadium. Almost twelve months later, my second-from-last game of this season would also feature Flamengo, but this time I would be crossing the Atlantic Ocean to see them play Chelsea in Philadelphia.

This is damned close to “completing the circle” and it’s good enough for me.

I am used to trips across the Atlantic. In September 1989 I visited North America for the very first time. I travelled over to New York with my college mate Ian and embarked on a ten-month odyssey of North America, which famously included a nine-hundred-mile cycle ride down the East Coast. Since then, my love for Chelsea Football Club and of travel, and of baseball and of Americana, kept calling me back.

But then, for some time, my love for the US waned. My last pre-season trip with Chelsea was in 2016 – Ann Arbor and Minneapolis – and I was not tempted by recent ones, especially when the club decided to play a bit-part role in the reality TV show that is Wrexham Football Club, not once but twice.

Modern football, eh?

We became World Club Champions against Palmeiras in 2022 – in lieu of 2021 – but then Gianni Infantino and the money-makers at FIFA decided to expand this competition to include a massive thirty-two teams and to stage a new version of the FIFA Club World Cup in the US.

And lo, I was conflicted.

Was I in favour of this competition?

Honestly, no.

More games, more expense, a new competition, FIFA personified.

Would I go? I was not sure.

But my mind went to work on this. If I was to go, it would be my twentieth trip to the US, and a perfect way to celebrate my 60^th birthday a few weeks after. The 2024/25 season would be a long and demanding season for me, for various reasons, but I knew for some time that it would almost certainly end with a trip to the United States for the latest incarnation of the Intercontinental Cup.

Soon into the planning stages, my old Chelsea mate Glenn showed an interest in going too, and it would be a lovely addition to the pre-season games we saw in Beijing in 2017 and then Perth in 2018.

The fixtures were announced with one game in Atlanta and two in Philadelphia. This pleased me no end. I didn’t fancy Atlanta as I had visited it a few times before, including two Atlanta Braves games in 1996 and 2002, but also en route to visit my friend Roma and her family in the Great Smoky Mountains a few times.

Two games in Philly would be more than perfect. I have a huge personal attachment to this city. My great great grandparents lived in Philadelphia in the mid-nineteenth century for five years before returning to Somerset, and I visited the city in 2010 with my eighty-year-old mother, who often said that she wanted to see where her relatives had resided all those years ago. At the time of our visit in 2010, we only knew a few facts about our relatives; that they had been shipwrecked on the voyage to Philadelphia in Newfoundland and that they returned to England not too long after.

To see my team play in a city where my family had lived in the 1850s pleased me no end.

I made the decision to add New York to our trip, since I figured that it would be a mortal sin for Glenn not to see one of the greatest cities in the world with me.

Flights were booked. Match tickets were purchased. The accommodation took a while to sort out. But we were on our way.

Phackinell.

New York.

After months of preparation and anticipation, I picked up Glenn at his house in Harris ( ! ) Close in Frome at 4am on Saturday 14 July. Glenn’s only other trip to the US was to Florida in 1992. He went with a mate of ours, Chippy, who was the Liverpool fan from Frome that I saw in the Annie Road seats on my first visit to Anfield in 1985, but I digress!

He was excited, I was excited, ah the joy of foreign travel.

At 6.30am, I was parked up at my mate Ian’s house in Stanwell, so close to Heathrow T5. Ironically, prior to my trip to Rio a year earlier, I had booked a “JustPark” spot in Stanwell, and then walked to a bus stop to take me to T5 and the bus stop was just fifty yards from his house.

The 1230 flight to JFK departed a few minutes late, but the pilot knew of a short cut, and we landed in Queens ahead of schedule.

A little light rain welcomed us to New York, but our trip into the city could not have been easier or cheaper.

AirTrain to Jamaica, Long Island Rail Road to Penn Station.

$8.

Cheap as French fries.

Now then, dear reader, let’s delve back into Chelsea’s history.

In June 2001, I visited New York to see the New York Yankees play five games of baseball, but to also meet up with my friend Roma from North Carolina. I had an unforgettable week. On the last day together, we found ourselves in the main forecourt of Penn Station, which is a deeply unlovable subterranean hellhole right below Madison Square Garden. On that morning, I ’phoned Glenn who had been calling in to check on my dear mother while I was away. And it was during that ‘phone-call that Glenn told me that we had signed Frank Lampard and Emanuel Petit. So, a little bit of my Chelsea history took place right in the middle of Manhattan.

And here we were, walking past that very spot.

There should be a royal blue plaque to commemorate this moment on a wall nearby.

Up at street level, I took a photo of Glenn with a misty Empire State Building in the background, and my heart was buzzing and bouncing. An hour later, we had located our apartment on East 14^th Street, near Union Square, and were making our way to my favourite bar in Manhattan, “McSorley’s”, and our walk took us past the hotel on St. Mark’s Place where Roma and I had stayed in 2001.

At “McSorley’s” the New York Fairytale began in earnest.

Here are some highlights…

McSorley’s.

This was my fourth visit. In 1997, Ian – my college mate who was with me in 1989 – returned to New York with me to watch the first-ever “Subway Series” between the Yankees and the Mets, and we visited this grand old pub for the first-time with our friend Stacey, who we met in Florida nearing the end of our cycle ride in 1989. In 2001, I visited it with Roma on our first night together. In 2015, I met up with my friend Steve from Philly prior to a Mets game. Steve’s grandparents were married in the Ukranian church opposite. Steve loves it that the bar is officially on Shevchenko Place.

With Glenn, we stayed around an hour and a half and drank their light and dark beers – the only choices – which are always served in two half-pints. The place was heaving, full of happy tourists. We were given free crackers, cheese and onion, and some lads from Portland bought us two rounds of our beers. It was a perfect start to our trip.

Jack Demsey’s.

Unbeknown to Glenn, I had contacted some great friends in New York to stage a little “surprise party” for him underneath the Empire State Building in a fantastic bar, “Jack Demsey’s”, on West 33^rd Street. The “meet” was at 6pm, and by 7pm around a dozen friends had accumulated together, and a fantastic night followed. The bar was full of Palmeiras fans, and there were a few Fluminense fans floating about too. The usual watering hole for the New York Blues – “Legends” – had been block-booked by Fluminense for five whole days. Both teams from Brazil were playing two games in New Jersey. Every time that we saw a Fluminense fan, we sang “Thiago Silva.” The volume of Brazilian fans in the city shocked me but I loved the buzz of seeing so many fans enjoying life.

Later, my friend Dom took us to a rooftop bar right underneath the Empire State Building and another one too, and we caught a late cab home. It had been one of the greatest nights.

Ten Miles.

On the Sunday, we slept on, but by around midday we were up. The misty and cool weather was perfect for a walk through the streets of Lower Manhattan, and it was a pleasure to be able to see Glenn’s reaction to a new city. Many people who read my rambling prose have commented how they often feel like they are living vicariously through my experiences, and it was now rewarding to see Glenn’s reactions to places that were more familiar to me, but unfamiliar to him. I had mentioned to him on the flight that I was relishing this. It was as if I was seeing New York for the very first time all over again, but through his eyes.

We craved a meal at a typical diner – booths, stools at the counter, eggs over easy, free coffee refills, rude waitresses, you know the type – but our neighbourhood was sadly lacking in these. We eventually found an Italian restaurant for a filling sandwich and then an Argentinian café, complete with Diego Maradona references, for a coffee.

Our walk took us through Little Italy, the outskirts of Chinatown, close to the Brooklyn Bridge and South Street Seaport, all the way down to Wall Street, then Battery Park and views of the Statue of Liberty. From there, we delved into “Century 21” for a little shopping, then walked north up Broadway and eventually back to our digs. In total, we walked ten miles, and the last two were as painful as hell. But it had been a magnificent first full day, and a little like the ground travelled on my first full day with Ian back in 1989.

Old Friends.

On the Monday, my friend Stacey – from 1989 and 1997, but also from visits in other years including with my mother to her house in New Jersey in 2010 – came into the city and met us for breakfast on Third Avenue. Glenn departed to take in a ferry trip to Liberty and Ellis Islands. Stacey and I did our own tour but were dismayed when we found out that the International Centre of Photography was closed until 19 June. We are both keen photographers. Instead, I suggested that we visited the Lower East Side Tenement Museum. It was fascinating. We learned of a beer parlour that was run by a German family, and then a trader who was Jewish, and it really enabled me to go back in time, to let my mind wander. I studied the migration of Europeans into North America while at college and it is a fascination of mine, enhanced through my own family’s experience in Philadelphia.

We met up with Glenn at “Jack Demsey’s” at 2.30pm to enable us to watch a far from emphatic Chelsea victory over LAFC from Atlanta. The stadium in Atlanta looked so empty and the bar in Manhattan was empty too. It dismayed me that of the dozen or so Chelsea fans at “Jack Demsey’s” many were looking at their ‘phones, eating and chatting while the game took place. The game on the TV seemed an inconvenience.

My love affair with the US began to wane once again.

I remembered an odd football-related tale from 1990. On our return to England in that year, Stacey visited Ian in London but also came down to see me in Somerset. Later they stayed with some friends in Bristol, who happened to live near Eastville, the former home of Bristol Rovers. Glenn and I had seen Chelsea lose 0-3 to Rovers at Eastville in 1980, but I had remembered that Stacey went to see some greyhound racing at Eastville on her visit in 1990.

That all three of us had visited Eastville made me chuckle.

During the game, my friend Keith popped in to see us, and on walking north after the game we witnessed an event in Times Square celebrating the premier of the “F1” movie. Glenn even spotted the Frome driver, and former World Champion from 2010, Jensen Button.

High.

On Tuesday morning, we walked a large section of The Highline, and I was reminded of my walk there in 2015. I love it. It also took me back to my first week in Manhattan in 1989 when Ian and I stayed in a very cramped hostel on West 20th Street, right under the walkway which in those days was just an abandoned train line. Since 2015, the flora and fauna has established itself and parts are in complete shade from the trees.

Again, we spotted Brazilian fans, but hardly any European fans. Not surprisingly, the South Americans were taking this tournament very seriously. Out of nowhere, I commented that as most football supporters who go to games put club over country, I wondered if in one hundred years’ time, the dominant World Cup competition would be this club version rather than the established one for countries.

Would USA 2025 be as significant as Uruguay 1930?

Something to contemplate perhaps.

Meet Me At Stan’s.

Later that day, after a walk up Fifth Avenue, we took the 4 Line to Yankee Stadium, and met up with my friends Mike and Steve, both Chelsea fans, both Yankee fans, Mike from New Jersey, Steve from Philadelphia. We met at “Stan’s Sports Bar” on River Avenue, right opposite the site of the old Yankee Stadium, home of Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Yogi Berra, Mickey Mantle, Phil Rizzuto and Reggie Jackson, and a place that I visited twenty-three times from 1990 to 2008. It is where Ray Wilkins made his debut during the US Bicentennial Tournament in 1976.

I was in my element, talking to the lads, reminiscing, supping “Rolling Rock”, looking forward to the baseball, but also thinking back to 1993 when my friends Paul and Nicky from Frome met me here before a game against Detroit. And to 1997 when Ian and I drank amidst shouts of “Let’s Go Yankees” and “Let’s Go Mets” in the first official series between the two teams, giving a real football-feel to the night. And to 2010 when my mother and I had a drink in “Stan’s” before a game against Baltimore. And to 2012 and 2013 when Chelsea played two games at either end of the season at the new Yankee Stadium, acting as bookends to my personal season, and “Stan’s” was the pre-match bar once again.

Game 1 : 22 July 2012 – Chelsea 2 Paris St, Germain 2

Game 57 : 25 May 2013 – Chelsea 3 Manchester City 5

I last saw Mike at the City game, and I last saw Steve at that Mets game in 2015.

I worked out that this was my thirty-third visit to “Stan’s” and this made me smile. I have known Lou, the owner, since 1993 and I also got to know the chap who runs it too. It was a joy to see Mike again. The first two beers had been on him.

Yankee Stadium.

So, here I was. I was back at Yankee Stadium again, and it felt like I had never been away. My last visit was in late July 2015 for an easy win against Baltimore Orioles. Right after that game, I drove from the multi-story car park that used to abut the old stadium, to Charlotte in North Carolina, via an overnight stop in West Virginia, for a game against PSG.

As I have said in these reports before, I much preferred the old stadium; it was cramped, atmospheric, grubby, but reeked of atmosphere and history. I loved the way that the upper decks towered over the infield and resembled jaws waiting to clamp shut. I loved it there. The new place just seems like a shopping mall. Most of my fellow Yankee friends feel the same. A little portion of my waning interest in baseball since around 2010 has undoubtedly been the fact that old Yankee Stadium is no longer there. A lesson for everyone, I think.

Build it and they will come?

Maybe not.

For this game, we had super seats in row one of the upper tier above home plate and Glenn, bless him, had gifted my seat as an early birthday present. Unfortunately it was a dire game of baseball, quite possibly the worst I have ever seen. The visiting Angels got ahead early and eventually won 4-0. But I loved it, and I loved the tales that Mike and Steve shared. Mike used to work for the Yankees as an intern in 2001 and 2002.

It was my thirty-first Yankee home game; twenty-three in the old Yankee Stadium, eight in the new stadium and my record stands at 20-11.

More importantly, Glenn absolutely loved it. And he is now a Yankee fan.

Dodge In Brooklyn.

On the Wednesday, our last full day in New York, the sun came out and we enjoyed another full day out walking and sightseeing. We took a cab to “DUMBO” ; Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. I guess “DUMB” would have been just, er, dumb.

What a great setting. With the East River laid out before us, and the skyscrapers of the financial district to our left and the midtown skyscrapers to our right, I was lost in a world of my own, with a George Gershwin song only a few heartbeats away. Even here we were surrounded by Palmeiras fans. We walked back into Manhattan, over the gorgeous Brooklyn Bridge, and I can honestly say that in the hour or so that we were in Brooklyn and on the bridge we saw around five hundred Palmeiras fans. Like in Abu Dhabi, they were everywhere.

In 1989 and 1990, Chelsea fans were nowhere to be seen. As we descended towards the City Hall, we passed the spot in May 1990 where I met the only Chelsea fan that I had seen in the ten months of me being in North America. This fact still staggers me. He was an ex-pat who was wearing a Chelsea training top. I shared this story with Glenn. As I told the tale, I could hardly believe what I was saying.

One Chelsea fan in almost ten months.

There should be a royal blue plaque to commemorate this too.

One Vanderbilt.

We took a subway up to the gorgeous interior of Grand Central – what a space – and while Glenn chilled out, I ascended one of the newer skyscrapers in midtown, right opposite Grand Central and the famous Met Life building. A work colleague had recently visited it and recommended it to me. I loved it. It’s roughly the same height as the Empire State Building and towers over the nearby Chrysler Building. There are three observation decks, and each one is magnificent.

The lowest one is full of mirrors which make reality a difficult concept but enhance the feeling of space and light. The middle one contains a room of constantly moving ballons, facing north and the pencil thin new builds overlooking Centeal Park, and this just made me laugh and smile. The highest one is outside, just you and Manhattan.

“Good luck, enjoy the view, don’t fall off.”

The Last Night.

My friend Dom invited us up to his apartment on West 52nd Street for some last night beers and this was a lovely and relaxing evening. We met up at around 7pm and watched as the sun set over Hoboken and The Pallisades in New Jersey, and then night fell with the skyscrapers of Manhattan a fantastic backdrop. I last saw Dom in Wroclaw. We spoke about Manhattan, Chelsea fans in the US, work, mutual friends, and it was a perfect time.

From here, we visited another rooftop bar, this time overlooking Times Square. We chatted to some ES Tunis fans, and we told them that we had seen quite a few of their supporters, too, in Manhattan, in their red and yellow stripes. We spoke about numbers of fans, and I was asked how many Chelsea fans were coming from the UK. I stalled, gulped, and embarrassingly said “about one hundred.”

Suddenly, we didn’t feel like a very big club at all.

Rio de Janeiro.

Ahead of our road trip from Manhattan to Philadelphia, here is a small recap of the only other time that I have seen Flamengo play.

“I again took a cab to the Maracana and was deposited in the same spot as on Thursday for the Fluminense vs, Internacional match, but immediately the mood seemed different. More noise. More supporters. More banners. It seemed that Flamengo really were the city’s team. I felt a little conflicted.

Flu over Fla for me, though.

I had paid a little more for my ticket – £40 – but was rewarded with a sensational view high on the main stand side. I took a lift to the top level and the vast bowl of the Maracana took my breath away. I bought myself a beer – alcohol is allowed in the stands in Brazil – and raised a toast to myself.

“Happy birthday young’un.”

I really loved this game. It was a lot more competitive, and the noise was more constant, and quite breath-taking. Cuiba, from the city of the same name, only had a few hundred fans for this match and I didn’t even try to hear them. Surprisingly, Cuiba scored early on when Derek Lacerda waltzed through and struck a shot into the massive Maracana goals. For aficionados of goals, goal frames, stanchions and goalposts, these are beauties.

“Deep sag.”

It was a decent game. My view of it made it. Maracana, dear reader, is vast.

At half-time, I trotted out to the balcony that overlooked the city. I took a photo of a section of the Maracana roof support, pocked and cracked through time, and contrasted it with the lights shining on a nearby hill. Rio is surrounded by huge rising pillars of black rock. And here I was inside the city’s mammoth concrete cathedral.

The second half began, and the intensity rose and fell. All eyes were on David Luiz. It was so good to see him play again. I last saw him play for Chelsea at the away friendly against St. Patrick’s Athletic in Dublin in 2019. The Fla – or ‘Mengo, take your pick – support never waned and were rewarded when Pedro tucked in an Ayrton cross on the hour. One through-ball from David Luiz will stay in my mind for a while. He was arguably their best player. It ended 1-1. The gate was 54,000. I was expecting more. Flamengo’s support is so huge that I was soon to liken them to Liverpool’s and Manchester United’s support in the UK combined

But there was one more thrill to come.

Whenever I saw photos of Maracana as a child and in later years, I was always mesmerized by its exit ramps, and I tried to imagine how many millions of cariocas – Rio’s inhabitants – had descended those slopes over the years. After the game, I walked them too.

The whole night had been a wonderful birthday present to me.”

Philadelphia.

And here we were, not too long before my 60^th birthday, on a Flixbus from just outside Madison Square Garden to the heart of the City of Brotherly Love, or perhaps – when I visited it with my dear Mum in 2010 – The City of Motherly Love.

I love the American road, and I had driven back from The Bronx in 2010 with my mother on this exact same route that Glenn and I were now taking. In fact, it almost mirrored the bus trip that a few of us took in 2012 after the game at Yankee Stadium against PSG, travelling down to Philly for the MLS All-Star Game in nearby Chester.

That was no ordinary journey, though.

On that memorable trip, my good friend Rick – a history buff – did some research into my relatives’ history and found out the details of their crossing of the Atlantic. The City of Philadelphia steam ship left Liverpool but was ship-wrecked off the coast of Newfoundland at Cape Race on 7 September 1854. Additionally, it was its maiden voyage, a fact that nobody knew until then. Rick found my great great grandfather’s brother listed on a passenger list, and that was good enough for me. The shipwreck was part of our family’s aural history, though the exact facts were never known.

I loved the fact that I was exposed to the intimate detail of that journey, previously only faintly written and quietly whispered in family folklore, for the very first time as I was travelling to Philadelphia over one hundred and fifty years after the crossing.

Like Benjamin and Barbara White in 1854, we were nearing Philadelphia.

We had earlier passed the town of Newark and we spotted the Red Bull stadium – I had sadly watched a Chelsea loss there in 2015 – but then pushed on past the airport, over the Delaware River and headed on into the city. We were deposited in the wonderfully named area called Northern Liberties.

It was superb to be back.

We soon arrived by Uber at our rented house in South Philly, about a mile or so from Steve’s house, at about 3pm. That evening, there was a planned meet at the “Tir Na Nog” bar in the city centre. We knew that we were in for a heavy evening with the game less than twenty-four hours away, so we chilled out for a while. Our house was magnificent, a clean and cosy, yet spacious, terraced house, just perfect.

It’s number on Pierce Street?

2025.

It seemed very appropriate.

We took an Uber to “Tir Na Nog” and we arrived bang on 7pm.

Have I ever mentioned that I work in logistics?

Phackinell.

The hours we spent in “Tir Na Nog” were super. Friends from both the UK and the US mingled and laughed and joked. I met a few Facebook acquaintances for the very first time and it was a blast.

I’d like to thank everyone who bought me a drink, or seven.

Steve from South Philly rolled in. It was here that I first met his wife Teri and their daughters Linda, Elizabeth and Cassidy in 2012. Cassidy, now fourteen, would be with Steve for the Flamengo game. All three daughters love football, and Chelsea of course.

Back in 2012, I remember that I yelled out a full “Zigger Zagger” and scared the girls to death.

No such foolish behaviour this time.

Johnny Dozen was sat, unmoved, in a corner spot the whole evening. It was as if the whole bar was built around him. He is a good mate, and after we closed out the bar at around midnight, we sloped off to “Con Murphy’s” just around the corner.

Here, we go back to 2012, the day before the game in Chester, when I visited “Con Murphy’s” with some other mates.

We were relaxing outside on the pavement, having a bite to eat, supping some ales, when a taxicab pulled up outside the bar. A chap exited the cab with a couple of friends, and I immediately remembered him from a post-baseball game pint the previous night. I had remarked that he was a doppelganger for Carlo Ancelotti. On this occasion, we couldn’t let the moment pass.

As he approached the bar, I started chanting

“Carlo! Carlo! Carlo!”

This elicited further song from The Bobster, Lottinho, Speedy, Jeremy “Army Of One” Willard from Kansas, plus Shawn and Nick from the Boston Blues –

“Carlo, Carlo, Carlo.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.
And The Shit From The Lane.
Have Won Fuck All Again.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.

2, 3, 4

Carlo, Carlo, Carlo.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.
And The Shit From The Lane.
Have Won Fuck All Again.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.

2, 3, 4

Carlo, Carlo, Carlo.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.
And The Shit From The Lane.
Have Won Fuck All Again.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.”

We were roaring with laughter and “Carlo” approached us with an increasingly bemused look on his face. I explained to him about his uncanny resemblance to Carlo and guess what? He was a Scouser. To be fair to him, he took it all in great spirits and even posed for photographs with us. He said he had been mistaken for Jay Leno the previous night.

As one, all of our left eyebrows arched in disbelief.

The look on the faces of the other customers at the tables was priceless.

I felt like saying – “yeah, we serenade random strangers like him all the time back in England.”

Back to 2025, and the little gang of friends that had continued drinking – Johnny Twelve, Hersham Bob, his mate Paul, Glenn, Matt and his wife Rachel – shrunk to just Johnny Twelve and little old me. We chatted to Nicole, who ran “Tir Na Nog”, and it seemed that Chelsea Football Club had not exactly held out the arm of friendship to the Chelsea signature pub in Philadelphia. No contact, no promotions, no merchandise, no nothing.

A shame.

At gone 2am, I took an Uber back to 2025. I was starving so the driver opened his boot and gave me a huge pack of zingy “Cheetos” that I devoured on the way home. There was a further stop at a convenience store for more snacks.

I made it home, but I would soon be up in the morning for the game against Flamengo.

The match against the Brazilian giants was to kick-off at 2pm, which meant that we didn’t really have too long for pre-match drinks. We had planned a little splinter group meet-up at “Oscar’s Tavern”, a cracking little dive bar. Glenn and I were starving so wolfed down a breakfast that did not touch the sides. There were a few drinks with great friends Bob, Alex and Rob from England, Dom from NYC, Alex and his girlfriend from Brooklyn, Kathyryn and Tim from DC, Josh from Minnesota, Johnny Dozen from Long Beach, Jaro and his son Alex from Virginia, his neighbour Joe and his son Luke, and Steve from his house just two miles to the south.

We caught a subway down to the stadium, the sun beating down as we exited, and headed for a quick drink at a huge and impersonal “super bar” that sits close to both the Phillies’ baseball stadium and the Eagles’ NFL stadium. The Flyers’ NHL and the 76ers’ NBA shared stadium is close-by too.

There has always been sport stadia in this part of the city, and it once housed the long-gone JFK Stadium where the US section of “Live-Aid” took place forty years ago.

I wasn’t sure of the numbers involved but as expected, Flamengo fans outnumbered us. It was lovely, though, to spot familiar faces from home and the US as we drifted in and among the crowd.

Time was moving on and there were lines at both the North and West gates. Flamengo fans were everywhere. We joined the line at the West gate. QR codes had appeared on our mobile phones earlier and I was just glad that mine hadn’t disappeared into cyberspace somewhere.

Glenn and I made our way up the various ramps to reach the M11 section, which was a middle-tier just above the large TV screen at the southern end of the stadium. As soon as we reached our row, we saw Andy from Nuneaton, a friend of thirty years.

There was all sorts of hoopla and nonsense happening on the pitch and on the PA as the kick-off approached.

The northern end was full of Flamengo red, but with odd pockets of blue at the edges. The rest of the stadium was dominated by the colour red. Down below us, the Chelsea lower tier was only a third full. The stadium capacity is 68,000 and it looked around two-thirds full.

My initial thoughts about this tournament were ringing true; too many games, tickets too expensive, we are reaching saturation point but FIFA wants more, more, more.

I had mentioned to others that my ideal format for this would have been sixteen teams, four groups of four, the winners to the semi-finals, then the final. Five games maximum.

Is the US getting tired of European teams? I remember a great game in 2009 in Baltimore between Chelsea and Milan, both teams stacked with talent, as many Chelsea as Milan fans in the crowd and a gate of 71,203. And that was a friendly.

Yet this game in Philly was no friendly, it was an official FIFA game, only Chelsea’s second-ever non-friendly match in North America, yet the Chelsea section was a third full. It seemed that, as I knew, many of our US fans had said “no thanks” to this one.

The teams were announced.

Us?

Sanchez

Gusto – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

James – Caicedo

Palmer – Enzo – Neto

Delap

Or something like that. It would take me a good few minutes to notice that Cole Palmer was on the pitch, and even longer to work out his position and role.

Flamengo, now managed by one-season wonder Felipe Luis, were now without David Luiz but boasted the arrival of Jorginho, who – from one hundred yards away – resembled Phil Cool.

I think the heat was getting to me.

Our section seemed to be where most of the UK fans had decided to buy tickets, which were at the cheaper of the two price ranges, and this did not surprise me. We love a bargain in the UK. As is the case, not many of us were wearing Chelsea gear, old habits die hard. I added a muted pink Paul Smith to the array of designer schmutter on display.

On the pitch, we were in the mid-‘seventies inspired semolina white with thin central feint red and green stripes.

The game began, and we played towards the Flamengo fans to the north.

The Brazilians attacked us early, with two shots that did not trouble Robert Sanchez, whose presence between the uprights troubled us.

On five minutes, a great through-ball from Enzo Fernandez gave Liam Delap the chance to run freely at the goal, memories of him at Portman Road in December, and his strong shot tested Agustin Rossi in the Flamengo goal. I think everyone in the stadium and beyond was thrilled by that one play and we hoped for more.

It was an eagerly contested match and on thirteen minutes, after a Flamengo free-kick was cleared, Pedro Neto put pressure on a Flamengo defender. The ball cannoned between the two players, and the ball spun forward, and so did Neto. We watched from afar as he raced away. Sadly, I didn’t have my SLR with me due to restrictions on what I could bring into the stadium, and my pub camera was not called upon to record his fine finish past Rossi.

I didn’t care.

We were 1-0 up.

GET IN YOU FUCKER.

Pandemonium in South Philadelphia.

I snapped the boys celebrating, and that was enough for me.

I whispered to Glenn :

“Back in England, there are fans of other teams saying ‘fucking hell, Chelsea are going to win this too’…”

Flamengo were fluid with the ball and ran at us from all angles, but we generally kept our shape, though it did seem that the heat was hurting us. Flamengo, used to the sultry heat of Rio, were not so deterred.

A long shot from Malo Gusto that did not trouble Rossi was a very rare chance for us.

Palmer was ridiculously quiet and hardly involved.

On thirty-two minutes, there was a hydration break, sponsored by a drinks company, and you just now there will be VAR breaks with sponsors very soon. The pitch was being hydrated too, with the sprinklers on.

With half-time approaching, the typically aggressive Marc Cucurella gave away a free-kick out on the Flamengo left. A deep cross was met by Gerson and his side-footed cross-come-shot bounced high, but Levi Colwill was on the line to head away.

We breathed a hot and sweaty sigh of relief.

Our attacks had petered out by the time the first half ended but Flamengo had stayed strong.

At half-time, Glenn trotted off to get some water for us both and that cost him $15. At least they came in decent aluminium logo’d cups. Elsewhere, a lad had bought three gin and tonics and a Diet Coke and it cost him $89.

There were no changes at half-time, but shadows gave way to sun in section M11, and I was glad to be wearing my Frome Town cap.

In the second-half, Steve and his daughter Cassidy came into our section to watch the game alongside us.

Soon into the second period, with most of the play now happening up the other end of the pitch, we had a major escape, a proper “get out of jail” incident. There was a terrible mix-up between James and Chalobah, which allowed Gerson to settle and steer a shot towards the goal. Thankfully, James had managed to back-peddle and block, but we watched with our hearts in our mouths as the onrushing Gonzalo Plata appeared, ghost-like, at the far post. Incredibly, his touch took the ball wide of the post and the angle must have defeated him.

We had a rare chance when a long Sanchez punt forced Leo Pereira, pressured by Delap, to knock past the post, his ‘keeper fully committed.

On the hour, a brisk succession of passes allowed a chance for Plata but his shot was well tipped over by Sanchez. It was a fine save.

Sadly, two minutes later the game changed. Cucurella gave up space as he was faced with marking two players, and a deep cross from our left was headed back towards goal by Plata. The loose ball – shades of the earlier chance – was tucked home by Bruno Henrique.

My heart sank.

Glenn : “It was coming, wannit?”

Their players all rushed over to the north-west corner, but that area was no Sleepy Hollow. The Flamengo fans were boiling over.

I was reminded of a “Mengo” chant that I had heard continually at the Maracana last summer and now it haunted me.

Enzo Maresca made some changes.

Romeo Lavia for Enzo.

Nicolas Jackson for Delap.

In the next attack, Flamengo won a corner on their right. Another deep cross caused panic, and it was again knocked back into the same area of space by the far post. This time Danilo turned it in.

Once 1-0 up, now 2-1 down, this hurt again.

The Flamengo players raced away to the same corner, again their keeper Rossi, all in yellow, raced up field with arms outstretched and it made me squirm.

It got worse, fucking worse. I didn’t see the incident, but Jackson went in “studs up” and was shown an immediate red.

Twat.

A header – over – from Enzo was a rare chance for us to level the game.

In a forlorn attempt to stem the flow, Maresca changed things again.

Noni Madueke for Enzo.

Marc Guiu for Palmer.

The supporters in M11 were disgruntled and upset, and it got even worse.

On eight-three minutes, Flamengo burst through into our box and after a rather fortuitous bobble from a shot, Wallace Yan steadied himself and slotted the ball in, again from the same part of the box.

Again, Rossi ran forward, arms raised, and I felt ill.

The game petered out and that was that.

The gate was given as 54,019 and I struggled to believe that only 14,000 seats were empty.

More like 40,000 at most.

We slowly walked back to the subway stop and all of us reckoned that it seemed a much longer walk than before.

“Probably because we lost.”

It was only 4.30pm or so, and so we met up another exquisite dive bar (“Bring your snorkel, Glenn”) called “Bob’s & Barbara’s” which soon got us smiling again. A few beers there did the trick, and it was great to meet up and chat with my old friend Mike and his son Matthew from New York, and another Matthew from South Carolina, who is a massive fan of international football, unlike me, and was soon off to his 69^th US game in Kansas, or somewhere.

“Just make sure they change ends at half-time in that one, mate.”

We spent a good amount of time there and could have stayed longer, but Steve walked Glenn and yours truly over to South Street where we devoured our first cheesesteak of the trip at “Jim’s” where we had visited in 2012.

“Steak, onions, Whiz.”

It was phantastic.

Our first match in Philly was done and dusted, but we now had to get something from Tuesday’s late game against Esperance of Tunis to ensure our safe passage into the last sixteen of this cup.

And that, my friends, is another story.

NEW YORK 2025

RIO DE JANEIRO 2024

PHILADELPHIA 2025 : A NIGHT WITH FRIENDS

PHILADELPHIA 2025 : CHELSEA VS. FLAMENGO

Tales From Our European Playground

Posted on June 2, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Real Betis : 28 May 2025.

“Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.

Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.

Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.

Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.

Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.

Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.”

Such was the fervour at about 9.45pm on the evening before the game against Spain’s Real Betis, that this song was sung repeatedly again and again, maybe for ten minutes or more. It is probably the reason why my voice was croaking at odd intervals for the next few days, including at work on the Friday.

We had assembled in the picturesque, photogenic and historic city of Wroclaw from all parts of the world – as an example I knew of five friends from Australia, five friends from California, five friends from New York, two friends from Bangkok – and as the old saying goes, the clans were gathering.

We were in Wroclaw.

I often preface a European Tale with the question, “so where does this story start?” and on this occasion there are a few possibilities.

Did the story start the day before, on Monday 26 May when I found myself nearing Bournemouth International Airport at about 7pm, with PD alongside me, and Parky alongside Salisbury Steve in the back seats?

“Honestly, you’d never know that we were approaching an international airport, winding our way through these narrow lanes and roads.”

Parky immediately chimed in.

“Steady on, Chris, you’re on the runway.”

Howls of laughter followed.

Did the story begin around two months ago when we decided to gamble on purchasing return flights from Bournemouth to Wroclaw?

Did the story begin with the draw for the odd group phase, those six games against individual teams with – for the first time for us – no home and away scenarios.

Did the story begin with the draw for the preliminary round of jousting before we got involved when it seemed odd for us to be playing the losing team out of Sporting Braga and Servette?

It might have started when Manchester United beat Manchester City in the 2024 FA Cup Final, thus pushing us into the previously ridiculed UEFA Europa Conference.

Maybe this Chelsea and Real Betis story began on Thursday 5 March 1998.

We were drawn away against Betis in the quarterfinals of the European Cup Winners’ Cup that season, and five of us had booked ourselves on a short three-day trip. I travelled up from Frome with my oldest Chelsea mate Glenn, and we met up with Paul from Brighton, and brothers Daryl and Neil, from near Southend and Guernsey respectively.

Ruud Gullit had been sacked on 12 February and the job of managing an entertaining but, at times, complacent Chelsea team was given to another crowd favourite Gianluca Vialli. This was, we were sure, a tricky proposition. Their star players were Finidi George and Alfonso.

We left early on the Wednesday and enjoyed a fantastic pub-crawl alongside the Guadalquivir River in the late morning and afternoon. We consumed many pints of “Cruzcampo” and one or two pints of “Guinness” in memory of Matthew Harding as we hit an Irish bar near the towering Cathedral. Walking our boozy selves back through the cramped streets of Seville to our hotel is a great memory even after all these years. A quick change of gear in the evening and then yet more bar hopping, interspersed with discussions of our chances against Middlesbrough in the imminent Coca-Cola Cup Final, the ethics of bullfighting, the legacy of Matthew Harding, the relative merits of The Jam and The Smiths, plus so much laughter that my smile-muscles are still hurting now.

On the late walk back to the hotel, we let the good people of Seville know that Tommy Baldwin was, indeed, the leader of the team.

On the Thursday, we bar-hopped again, at an easier pace, and popped over to visit the stadium of Sevilla – Estadio Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán – which seemed a far more impressive stadium than Estadio Benito Villamarin, Betis’ home pad. In one bar, I remember Paul pointing out Babs to me, the storied leader of The Shed in the ‘seventies. In a restaurant, I enjoyed my first-ever paella.

I remembered working with a Real Betis fan in Trowbridge. He told me they were the working-class team of the city.

We were deposited in the away end of the rather dusty away end very early ahead of the game that only began at 9.30pm. I hoisted my “VINCI PER NOI” flag and we waited for others to join us. Back in those days, our travelling away support was fearsome, and dominated by geezers in their thirties. We had a big mob in the seats to our left, plus a few thousand in the single-tiered away end. The gate that night was 31,000 and I suspect we had around 3,500 there.

With a nice piece of timing, it was my three-hundredth Chelsea game.

We got out of the starting blocks so well, and two very similar goals from Tore André Flo – right in front of us – gave us a magical 2-0 lead in the first twelve minutes. We were in heaven. Chelsea withstood a Betis onslaught in the second half but despite that man Alfonso scoring, we held on to a 2-1 win.

After the game, we went straight back to the airport and caught a flight home. We had only been in the city for about forty hours, but it seemed much longer.

In the home leg, we easily won 3-1.

We would meet again in the 2005/6 Champions League campaign, winning 4-0 at home but losing 0-1 away. I did not return to Seville that year but saw the home leg.

The game in Wroclaw would, therefore, be my fourth game against them.

Before all this, maybe we have another starting point, for me at least. In late September 1994, our first UEFA game of any description in twenty-three – count’em – years saw Chelsea visit the Bohemian town of Jablonec on the Czech Republic border with Poland. Having beaten the Prague team Viktoria Zizkov 4-2 in a scintillating and exhilarating night in the Stamford Bridge rain, we now faced the return leg in a town seventy miles from Prague. Jablonec was chosen to try to stop crowd disorder. Dimitri Kharin saved a penalty, and we drew 0-0, and it was my first-ever European jaunt with Chelsea Football Club.

Ironically, Jablonec is just one hundred and five miles from Wroclaw.

You could say that in almost thirty-one years, we had travelled just one-hundred and five miles.

Enough of these history lessons.

On the Monday, I spent some time in the morning writing up my match report for the previous day’s game against Nottingham Forest.

Alas, after the euphoria at the City Ground, I was met with more sadness. I happened to read on “Facebook” that another Chelsea friend from our little part of Stamford Bridge had recently passed away.

For the second time in around two weeks, I was heartbroken.

I had known Rousey for years. He sat in the row behind me from 1997, and he was a great character. He habitually came in five minutes late at ever game and we would always give each other a “thumbs up” on his arrival. I remember a night out in Norwich after a 3-1 win in March 2005 when he joined Glenn, Frank and me in a nightclub, and he danced like a loon. He crashed that night on the floor of Glenn’s B&B room. Rousey especially loved his European adventures with Chelsea, and he was booked on this trip to Wroclaw. Alas, his great friend Lee would be travelling with an empty seat next to him.

RIP Stephen Rouse.

The flight to Wroclaw, featuring a few familiar faces from the south and west of England, was delayed by around half-an-hour, and we were further delayed by an aborted landing. We were not far away from touching down when the plane rose steeply. We were to hear from the pilot that another plane had been spotted on, or near, the runway.

Thankfully, we were back on terra firma ten minutes later.

The only other aborted landing I have known was when we were seconds away from landing in Oslo in Norway and were diverted to Gothenburg in Sweden. But that’s another Chelsea story.

Alas, a ridiculous wait at passport control – a full ninety-minutes, thankfully no extra-time and penalties – meant that we did not reach our apartment to the east of the city centre until 3am after dropping Steve off at his apartment en route.

Our late arrival meant that we didn’t rise too early on the Tuesday. We wandered off to drink some ridiculously strong coffee in a local café at 10.30am, and I then booked an Uber to take us into the city. It was a beautiful and sunny day. We had a little walk around and soon found ourselves on the bench seats outside a restaurant called “Chatka” just to the north of the main square. It was 12.30pm.

We ordered some lagers – “Ksiazece” – and some food soon after.

Goulash, dumplings and pickled cucumbers.

When in Rome.

Lo and behold, many friends happened to spot us as they walked past, quite unplanned, and they joined us for beers. One of the lads, Ben, has the honour of coming up with the Tyrique George song.

At about 4pm, we sidled up to the main square and joined around two-hundred Chelsea outside one of the many bars, the Breslauer, that lined the square. There were hugs from many, and smiles and handshakes too. We were in our element. There were many Betis fans camped in the adjacent bar. There was only singing and smiles. No trouble.

At 7pm, we heard that others were off to a place called “The Guinness Bar”, just a short hop away, so we trotted over. Here, we bumped into more good friends. Again, the mood was fine, and there were a gaggle of Real Betis fans drinking, and singing, in a bar opposite.

At 7.30pm, the mood quickly changed. With absolutely no warning, around twenty lads in mainly black, some with their faces covered, appeared from nowhere and quickly aimed beer bottles, glasses and chairs at us. The sound of breaking glass filled the early evening air. A bottle of beer crashed into my camera bag, and I recovered it. Thankfully, nothing was broken. A shard of glass hit my right hand and for a moment I was bloodied. I held my hand up to protect my eyes, but I was still sat at my seat. I think that the surprise of it all had stunned me. By standing up, maybe I thought I might be a bigger target.

Thankfully, it was all over in twenty seconds.

PD had received cuts to his leg, but one lad was severely cut on his forehead.

Within minutes, the shards of broken glass were being swept up by the bar staff and it was back to business, as if nothing had happened. The local police appeared then disappeared.

My immediate thoughts were that this was an attack on us by the locals, the local Slask Wroclaw fans, out to defend their own turf, out to make a name for themselves against the once notorious Chelsea.

I went over to talk to some residual Betis fans, and they confirmed with me that the attackers were not Spanish lads.

I was reminded how I feared meeting Legia Warsaw in the final. I could only imagine how messy that might have been. We would have been run ragged from arsehole to breakfast time. Though, thankfully and rather oddly, the quarter final in Warsaw seemed to pass without incident.

The drinking continued. We were joined by friends from near and far. The Tyrique George song was the star of the night, but there were others too.

We were still drinking at midnight, but I think we headed for home soon after.

It had been, almost, a twelve-hour sesh.

Fackinell.

Again, we rested on Wednesday morning after our escapades on Tuesday, leaving the spacious apartment at 12.30pm. Another cab into the city, and we plotted up at “Chatka” again. Alas, it was raining hard, so we were forced inside. The restaurant was very different on match-day. Yesterday, there were no Betis supporters. Today, it was full of them.

I began with a soft drink, as did Steve, but after ordering some ribs with new potatoes and pickled vegetables, I joined PD and LP with the lagers. Other friends arrived and joined us, including the Kent Boys from “The Eight Bells”, but also Michelle from Huntingdon Beach in California, who I had promised Johnny Dozen I would look after. Michelle had arrived late on the Tuesday and called in at 2.30pm.

The Betis crowd were full of song, and I thought it ironic that we rallied with our own Spanish hit.

“Cucurella. Cucurella. He eats paella, he drinks Estrella, his hair’s fucking massive.”

To say they all looked bemused would be an understatement.

We had heard, through the grapevine, that there had been tear gas used on some Chelsea supporters the previous night, plus water cannons in the main square during the morning.

At about 4pm we walked the short distance to “Doctor’s Bar” – the rain now stopped – to join up with Mike, Dom, Paul and Steve from New York, plus mates from Bulgaria and Czechia too. The beers were going down well, and the singing continued.

At around 6.30pm, we gathered the troops and set off to find a tram to take us to the stadium. A cab sped past, and Clive – my mate from The Sleepy Hollow – yelled obscenities at us.

That made me laugh. What a small world.

We waited in vain at the first designated stop, as all the trams were full, so headed off to find another marshalling point.

Michelle led the way, and we followed on.

It was her finest hour.

We alighted near the stadium just before 8pm, and most of us scampered off to a nearby wooded area to water the flowers. Then, the slow walk to the stadium. We were allocated the southern end. Out came the cameras.

I was amazed how many people we recognised. There always were concerns that we would be well-outnumbered by the Spaniards. It was, after all, their very first European Final. By contrast, this was our eighth, not including the Super Cups. And let’s be honest, many in the Chelsea support have been relatively derisory about our participation in this trophy. And I can understand that.

If the Champions League is the UEFA equivalent of the FA Cup and the Europa League is the equivalent of the League Cup, then what on earth is the equivalent of the Europa Conference?

At times it has felt like the Play-Off Final to get into the Football League.

At least the 2025 final has given it some gravitas with Chelsea and Real Betis involved.

Personally, I saw no point in this competition when it arrived in 2021. One of my favourite expressions in life is “less is more” but both UEFA and FIFA quite obviously think “more is more.” The expanded Champions League, the expanded Europa League, and now an unnecessary third UEFA trophy, and forty-eight nations in the 2026 FIFA World Cup. Where will it bloody end? A cup for everybody?

Everyone wins. Everyone wins!

I hate modern football.

But here we all were.

Sophie, Andy and Jonesy from Nuneaton, Jason from Swanage, George from Czechia, Orlin and Alex from Sofia, Youth and Seb from Atherstone, Kimberley and Nick from Fresno, Mike, Frank, Dom, Paul and Steve from New York, Carl and Ryan from Stoke, Alan from Penge, Pauline and Mick from Benidorm, Russ from Melbourne, Rich from Cheltenham, Martin from Gloucester, Martin and Bob from Hersham, Shari, Chris and Skippy from Brisbane, Julie and Tim from South Gloucestershire, Luke, Aroha and Archie from Harrow, Daryl from South Benfleet, Rich from Loughborough, Della and Mick from Borstal, Clive from Bexhill, Les from Melksham, Julie and Burger from Stafford, Donna from Wincanton, Vajananan and Paul from Bangkok, Ben from Baton Rouge, Paul, Ali and Nick from Reading, James from Frankfurt, Andy and Josh from Orange County, Scott from Fylde, Michelle and Dane from Bracknell, John from Ascot, Liz and Pete from Farnborough, Gary from Norbury, Mick from Huddersfield, Even from Norway, Leigh and Darren from Basingstoke, Tommie from Porthmadog, Jason from Dallas, Michelle from Huntingdon Beach, Steve from Salisbury, Parky from Holt, PD from Frome and me from Mells, plus hundreds more from various parts of London.

Why were we here?

To see us win it all. Again.

Our tickets were effectively QR codes, and they had appeared on our phones while we were huddled tightly together in “Chatka” a few hours previously. Thankfully, they had not disappeared. Getting in was easy. Despite warnings about identity checks, there were none. I had planned my camera strategy and decided not to risk my zoom lens. Instead, my SLR just had a wide-angle lens attached. The security guy didn’t like this at first, but after a little persuasion he allowed me, and it, in.

Result.

I managed to coerce some chap to take a photo of the four of us one more time; friends through geography, football and fate…Chris, Paul, Steve, Glenn…before we split up. Parky and I were in the 45-euro section in the third level, the others in the 25-euro section in the first level. I hung back with Parky, and he allowed me to indulge myself in one of my favourite pastimes; photographing the pre-match scene, stadium architecture, logos, colours, some of the small stuff that others might miss. Like in Munich in 2012, the sun was slowly setting in the west.

The exterior of the stadium, like so many these days, is sheathed in plastic panels, thus hiding the guts of the structure to the outside world. I have seen better stadia, I have seen worse. Inside, a very roomy concourse, full of supporters, but not many in blue.

Even at major Cup Finals, we still don’t really do colours.

Many were lining up for food and drinks. Although I was starving, I didn’t fancy queuing. As luck would have it, Clive – from the taxi – appeared out of nowhere and heroically shared his mushroom pizza slice with Parky and I. He saved the day.

The slow ascent to the very top, Section 332.

Once inside, I immediately liked the stadium. Steep terracing, a nice size, all very compact with no wasted space. There were no real quirky features, but it did the job.

Our squad, split into two, the starting eleven and the substitutes, were down below us in our corner, dressed in pink tops, going through their drills.

I was five rows from the very rear, and Parky was close by in the row behind.

I saw that there was a long yellow banner pinned on the fence in front of the Chelsea section.

“OUR BLOOD IS BLUE AND WE WILL LEAVE YOU NEVER.”

It was obviously part of a pre-game tifo display. There was a plain blue plastic flag planted in my seat. Would I be tempted to wave it? I saw no reason why not; I am not that much of a curmudgeon.

The minutes ticked by.

There seemed to be way more Betis fans in the arena, easily marked by their green shirts and scarves and hats. They seemed to especially enjoy tying flags around their waist, like latter day Bay City Rollers fans, or something.

The Chelsea section was dotted with latter day casuals with the usual labels on display, mixed in with occasional replica shirts.

Me? I was a mixture of Boss and Lacoste – lucky brands from previous UEFA finals – but wore a pair of new blue and yellow Nike Cortez trainers for the first time.

I needed the light rain jacket that I was wearing. It was getting colder.

“Blue Is The Colour” rang out and boy did we all join in.

Fantastic.

The plastic flags were waved with gusto. The “London’s First London’s Finest” crowd- surfer appeared down below. At least it was the right way round and not back to front like in Amsterdam in 2013.

It just felt that we were mightily outnumbered. I spotted a block of fifty empty seats in the side stand to my right. Immediately around me were a few empty ones.

It saddened me that we – a huge club now – could not sell our 12,000 seats.

It looked like Betis had sold their 12,000 but had gone the extra mile and hoovered up most of the spare neutral or corporate seats, just like United did at Wembley in 1994 and we did at Wembley in 1997.

The desire was seemingly with them, not us.

Sigh.

Time moved on and we were getting close to the kick-off now.

The Betis fans had been far noisier than us up to this point and as their club anthem rang out, they unveiled a huge tifo to go with their banner at the base of their tier.

“NO BUSCO GLORIA PERECEDERA, SINO LA DE TU NOMBRE.”

“I SEEK NOT PERISHABLE GLORY, BUT THAT OF YOUR NAME.”

On the pitch, images of players of both teams moved around on giant displays, and music boomed around the stadium.

At last, the two teams appeared from my stand to the left. The Betis end turned green once more, with virtually everyone holding their scarves horizontally above their heads. This always used to impress me as a child, but as it just isn’t a Chelsea thing, it hasn’t the same effect these days. The sun turned the sky bronze, just visible twixt stand and roof.

Time to check the team again.

Jorgensen

Gusto – Chalobah – Badiashile – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Madueke

Jackson

Immediate questions from me to Enzo Maresca.

Why Malo Gusto and not Reece James?

Why Benoit Badiashile and not Levi Colwill?

Also, Robert Sanchez is our number one ‘keeper. Now, even though Jorgensen has started virtually all these Conference League games and the manager clearly wanted to stay loyal to him, this is a final after all.

I wasn’t convinced this was our strongest team. But I had no issues with Nicolas Jackson up top. He does offer a presence and allows Neto to do his thing on the right.

At 9pm in Lower Silesia, the 2025 Europa Conference Final began.

I really liked the thin stripes of the Real Betis jerseys. Within a few minutes, with that huge bank of green facing me, I experienced flashbacks to Abu Dhabi when we faced Palmeiras. We were outnumbered there but were victorious. It felt so strange to be standing by myself even though Parky was a few yards away.

On the touchline, the wily old fox Manuel Pelligrini, in a deep green top.

Enzo Maresca, in black not so far away from him.

They were together at West Ham United.

The place was noisy all right, and most of it came from the northern end. The Spaniards began strongly, attacking with pace at our back line. A cross from Antony, booed by many of us during the introductions for his Manchester United past, sent over a cross that thankfully didn’t trouble Jorgensen. At the other end, Palmer forced a save from Adrian, who seemed to be spared much booing despite his West Ham United and Liverpool past.

Alas, on just nine minutes, Malo Gusto’s pass was chased down. The ball was played to Isco, and his square pass found Ezzalzouli. From an angle, he steered the ball past Jorgensen and the ball nestled inside the nearest corner to me to Jorgensen’s left.

The green sections – maybe two-thirds of those inside – erupted with a blast of noise that chilled me to the bone.

Four minutes later, Joregensen saved well, but had to readjust his feet to do so; a long-range effort from Marc Bartra was tipped over, our ‘keeper arching himself back to save dramatically.

Just after, our first loud and united chant of the night punctured the Wroclaw night.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

We gained a foothold and dominated possession, but without managing to really force an effort on Adrian’s goal. We were slow and pedestrian, and the Betis fans were still making most of the noise.

We looked poor.

There had been plenty of hype about us completing an expanded set of European trophies on this night. In fact, from the very start of the campaign, it was expected that we would win this competition. Yet, as the first half continued, the Spanish team were looking far more likely to be victorious.

Throughout this Europa Conference campaign, I kept commenting how the colour green kept cropping up. Whereas the Champions League brand colour is blue and the Europa League is orange, the Europa Conference is green. We played Panathinaikos and Shamrock Rovers in the group phase, we played Legia in the quarters, who have a predominantly green badge, we were playing Real Betis in the final in a stadium whose home team play in green, and whose seats were all green.

But maybe it was us who were green in this match. It certainly felt like it.

Betis created a couple of chances, and we could only wish for the same. One shot from them thankfully flashed high over the bar.

Our “Amazing Grace” chant tried to lift our players.

“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea.”

On thirty-four minutes, Neto cut in but shot over. Was this only our second shot of the game? I thought so.

The two wingers Madueke and Neto swapped flanks for the final few minutes of a very lacklustre first half. On forty-three minutes, Enzo was sent through, but Adrian reached the ball first. One minute of injury time was signalled and an Enzo shot went off for a corner. We had really dominated the possession but had created so very little.

Did I really detect boos from some in the Chelsea section at the end of the first half?

Oh boy.

At half-time, I went for a small wander into the concourse underneath us in the third level. Everyone was so miserable. I moaned to a couple of friends about the team selection. Night had fallen, and the stadium shell was lit up with blue lights, or at least at our end. I suspected the northern end to be green.

It was an almost cathartic experience to be exposed to so much blue. It was as if my soul needed it.

On returning to my seat, I saw that Parky had disappeared, but I wanted him to come and sit next to me in the spare seat to my right.

Thank heavens, Reece James replaced the poor Gusto at half-time. All at once, it seemed we had regained our purpose. Our Reece soon thumped in a cross into the mixer, but it evaded everyone.

On fifty-four minutes, the improving Madueke sent over a cross towards Jackson, but he was clattered by Adrian.

From the corner, James shot at goal was deflected wide. Soon after, Jackson shot but did not threaten Adrian.

We were back in this now and our noise levels, at last, rose.

On sixty-one minutes, two more changes.

Levi Colwill for Badiashile.

Jadon Sancho for Neto.

No complaints from me.

We pushed on.

On sixty-five minutes, Palmer took hold of the game. He had been relatively quiet, but from a deep position he turned and ran at the Betis defence. He stopped, gained a yard of space, and with his exquisite wand of a left foot, curled a ball in to meet the little leap from Enzo. Our Argentinian did not have to rise too highly, but his header down was just perfection. We saw the net ripple and I yelled out in joy.

Snap, snap, snap, snap as our Argentinian raced away in front of the Chelsea hordes. He ran over to the corner, and how I wished I was over there too.

We were level.

GET IN.

Not long after, a shot from Palmer but a save.

Chelsea were roaring now while Betis were quiet.

On seventy minutes, with Palmer in possession in the corner down below me, I yelled out –

“Go on Cole. Bit of magic.”

He didn’t let me down.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. His marker seemed mesmerized. Palmer spun away and curled a ball into the box with his right foot, and the cross was met by Jackson who simply could not miss.

We erupted again.

Snap, snap, snap, snap as Jackson ran away to my left and collapsed on the floor by the corner flag. The substitutes celebrated with the players, what a glorious sight.

We were ahead.

Fackinell.

Our end boomed now.

“And it’s super Chelsea.

Super Chelsea FC.

We’re by far the greatest team.

The World has ever seen.”

Out of nowhere, Parky appeared and stood next to me for the rest of the match.

Next up, the ball was pushed forward, and we realised that Jackson was free, with almost half of the pitch ahead of him, and just Adrian to beat. One touch fine, two touches, disaster. Adrian gathered and Jackson, rather pathetically, stayed motionless on the floor.

“Get up, you fool.”

On eighty minutes, he was replaced by Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall.

Three minutes later, the ball was played to him, and he bounced the ball out to Sancho. Our little winger shimmied, dropped a shoulder, and struck a fine curler past Adrian and into the Betis goal.

Snap, snap, snap, snap as the substitutes raced across the pitch to join in the celebrations.

In the battle of the Manchester United loanees, it was Sancho 1 Antony 0.

And we were 3-1 up.

More beautiful noise.

The game was won now. However, rather than make arses of ourselves like West Ham United did two years ago, declaring themselves “Champions of Europe”, we seized the moment to declare once again that…roll on drums :

“WE’VE WON IT ALL.”

Marc Guiu replaced Palmer, and our little gem was given a hero’s salute.

With still a minute to play, the Chelsea end chirped along to the tune of “One Step Beyond” and there was much bouncing.

Lovely.

There was still more to come.

With Betis tiring everywhere, Enzo brought the ball forward. He chose to ignore the rampaging run outside from Dewsbury-Hall and slipped the ball inside to Moises Caicedo. He took a swipe, went into orbit on the follow-through, I snapped, and the ball was whipped into the corner.

Chelsea 4 Real Betis 1.

What a feeling.

Phew.

We were simply unstoppable in that second-half.

At the final whistle, I pointed to the sky above Wroclaw.

“That’s for you Albert. That’s for you Rousey.”

The post-match celebrations seemed to take forever to orchestrate, and in the middle of the preparations, I took a few moments to sit in my seat. I had been virtually stood up since lunchtime at “Chatka” and I was exhausted.

At last, Reece James hoisted the trophy aloft and we roared. I attempted to capture the mood with my camera, a hopeless task. It seemed like millions of gold stars fell from the skies. Songs were played, some good, some bad.

I didn’t see the need for “We Are The Champions” because, well, we weren’t. But it was an odd reminder of early 1978 when it became the first single that I ever bought, and I haven’t lived it down since. I bloody hate Queen.

Real Betis quickly vacated the arena, and after what seemed an age, Parky and I slowly left too.

I took one video of “Our House” and called it a night.

And what a night.

We walked away with another UEFA trophy to our name.

If you discount the three losses in the Super Cup, we have won seven out of our eight major European finals. That is a fantastic hit rate.

Europe really is our playground.

And I have been lucky enough to be present at all of them apart from Athens in 1971.

We soon caught the cab back into town, alongside Shari and Chris from Brisbane, Julie and Tim from South Gloucestershire, and Neil Barnett. Both Neil and I will be in Philadelphia for two of the FIFA World Club Cup games in June.

PD, Parky and I queued up for a kebab in a late-night eatery opposite the main train station. There was no chance for extra celebrations, as we had to be up at 6am in the morning to catch our flight home at 10.05am. A can back to the apartment, and we hit the sack at around 2am.

In bed, I found it hard to sleep. My feet ached. And I couldn’t get that bloody song out of my head.

“Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.”

The return trip home on the Thursday went well, and we all agreed that the short spell in Wroclaw had been absolutely first class.

And, despite the dark days, it had been another decent season supporting The Great Unpredictables.

Top four, Conference League winners, Champions League next season, a team coming together…

I will see some of you in Philadelphia.

Phackinell.

REAL BETIS VS. CHELSEA 1998

CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : TUESDAY

CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : WEDNESDAY PRE-MATCH.

CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : THE EUROPA CONFERENCE FINAL

CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : “WE’VE WON IT ALL”

THANK YOU WROCLAW

“TYRIQUE GEORGE“

“OUR HOUSE”

Tales From A Weekend Away

Posted on May 19, 2025 by Chris Axon

Newcastle United vs. Chelsea : 11 May 2025.

“I turned into Rylston Road, then drove along Lillee Road to collect Paul and Parky.

I pointed my car towards the North End Road and began the long dive to Tyneside.”

With our place in the final over in Poland confirmed with a victory in Europe on the eightieth anniversary of VE Day, the three of us could now look forward to a four-day stay in Newcastle upon Tyne.

And there hadn’t been two games like this for a while, with the second a virtual continuation of the second.

It was a slow start. I navigated some road closures and traffic congestion as I headed towards the North Circular at Chiswick. From there, up and over the Hanger Lane Gyratory, close to Park Royal tube station, where my first-ever trip into Stamford Bridge gathered pace in 1974. By now, Parky was asleep in the back seat, but PD was keeping me company in the front.

I climbed up on to the M1, stopped at Toddington Services for a comfort break, then headed north and into the night. It was a decent drive, and I only started feeling a little tired as we drove past Durham. I stopped for a second time at Washington Services at 3.45am and enjoyed a ninety-minute power nap. Parky had grabbed lots of sleep, PD a smaller amount.

At 5.30am, refreshed, I drove into Newcastle, over the Tyne Bridge, and was humbled at how excited I was. Within half-an-hour, I was parked up at Whitley Bay, and the three of us trotted over to the promenade to take in the cold and bracing sea air as the rising sun lit the sky and sea and land with its golden rays.

Dear reader, this was a bloody great feeling, over three hundred miles from home, with a head start on the weekend, and perfect weather all around us.

We then headed a few miles south to Tynemouth, recommended to me by a friend who lived locally, and we killed time with a coffee in the main street. We then sauntered over to a pub and gobbled down a full English breakfast.

There was a wait until 2pm to check-in to our apartment, but while we entered another pub for a drink at 10am, I received notification that we could check in early at 11am. I sunk my Diet Coke, the lads sunk their lagers, and I headed west.

We checked in, then decided to have a couple of hours’ sleep since we all knew that we needed it.

Showered and changed, we headed over to Ouseburn at 4pm and the weekend began in earnest. We called in at “The Tyne Bar” then headed the short distance to the “Free Trade Inn” where we spent a lovely time. This small pub is perched on a slight hill overlooking the River Tyne. Just after 6pm, my old college mate Graeme – with his daughter and her boyfriend – walked in and it was a pleasure to see him again. He is a native of Tyneside, lives in Whitley Bay, and was on the same geography course as me in Stoke in the mid-‘eighties. Despite chatting on Facebook for a few years now, this was the first time that we had seen each other since graduation in 1987.

We both remembered back to what we were doing in the autumn of that year. I was just about to set off Inter-Railing, but also selling football badges at stadia in Europe, while Graeme, oddly enough, was embarking on a short career in the quarry industry very close to my home area.

Our evening soon deviated from the plan. My friend Kim, who looks after the band China Crisis, had seen my photos of the city, and had quickly contacted me to see if I fancied going along to their show at The Glasshouse on the opposite bank of the river. I was in, and so was Graeme, and he would be joined by his partner Lynda too.

So, a change of plan. Parky and PD would spend the rest of their evening quaffing ales with some locals at the ‘Spoons on the quayside, while Lynda, Graeme and I spent a very enjoyable two hours in Gateshead reacquainting ourselves with the “Flaunt The Imperfection” album on the fortieth anniversary of its debut in 1985. Every song from the album was played along with some other favourites.

Ah, 1985.

The second-from-last match to be featured in my retrospective of the 1984/85 season features, ironically, a return to the city where Graeme and I spent those college years and the away game at the Victoria Ground on Saturday 8 May 1985.

I always thought that it was perfect that Chelsea’s last away game of the season would be in Stoke, the city where I would be living from September 1984. Throughout the season, I always had it in the back of my mind, a lovely end point to everything. It was, originally, going to be the very last game of the season, but due to Norwich City’s place in the Milk Cup Final, our home game with them was tagged onto the season, on the Tuesday after the match at Stoke. I was never going to attend that one.

For me, Stoke was the final game, and I found great comfort in that.

I remember going out on the Friday evening with a small band of college friends, and we ended up atop the hill at Penkhull. I remember meeting up with Pete, a Chelsea lad I knew, and his mate Mac, who was – I think – studying at our sister site in Stafford. It was a decent little pub crawl, and I was rather merry at the end of it. The thought of seeing Chelsea just ten minutes away from where I was living must have been just too much for me.

I was up early on the Saturday. This was another 11.30am kick-off. I needed to look smart for this last game of the season; I went with a pink Lacoste polo shirt and a mint green Robe di Kappa lambswool pullover, plus the obligatory jeans and Nikes. The Victoria Ground was nestled among a grid of terraced streets just south of the Stoke town centre, and in the following two years I would live in the street right outside the away end.

I suppose you could say that this was bound to happen; football bringing me home.

I made my way down to the ground and saw Dave and Simon from “The Benches” by the main gates of the forecourt of the away end. I think I must have bought seat tickets at a previous Chelsea home game, and I took position in the second row right behind the goal. For my season finale, this was more than perfect.

Sadly, we heard that a special from Euston had been derailed at Watford. My mates Glenn from Frome and Swan from Radstock arrived and took their seats next to me. Oddly, the police turfed everyone out of the very front row, so that left us in effectively the front row. This was odd, since there were Chelsea fans on the terrace below. It wasn’t as if anyone would throw anything at other fans in front. My mate Terry from Radstock was spotted in the terrace down below. I also saw my housemate Kev from Barnsley, suddenly appear on the Chelsea terrace. He was a Barnsley fan and must have been enticed in after hearing me wax lyrical about Chelsea all winter long. This pleased me.

A rumour went round that the match would be delayed until midday to allow those on the special to be admitted, but I don’t think they ever made it to Stoke, let alone the match.

I loved it that the three of us all wore Robe di Kappa pullovers. I remember I bought mine at a great little shop in Hanley that winter. Glenn still dotes about his navy one to this day, and he recently explained how he didn’t tell his gran how much it cost on a trip into the East End. Swan wore a pink one. Our mate Dave took a photo which I include.

Sadly, we learned in 2020 that Swan had passed away over the past few years.

After some decent wins of late, Chelsea was vying for a place in Europe, something that I could not have imagined when the season began in August.

The end boomed out a couple of “Ten Men Went To Mows” as the game began with us attacking the home Boothen End in the first half. We had a couple of chances but failed to score. Stoke City were an abysmal team this season and had been relegated weeks previously. The atmosphere seemed to be tense in the away end as we searched an all-important goal. However, the highlight of the first period was an insane save from Eddie Niedwiecki from Keith Bertschin right in front of us.

In the sixty-fifth minute, with Chelsea now attacking us, Pat Nevin was fouled outside the box. He floated a free kick in and who else but David Speedie rose to send a bullet header past the Stoke ‘keeper Peter Fox.

Euphoria.

Our song du jour was a new one, and where it came from I have no idea.

“To Europe, to Europe. Tra la la – la la la la – la la la la la la.”

We held on as the Chelsea end celebrated with song, though in truth it had been a patchy performance. Despite a healthy Chelsea presence in both seats and terrace, the gate was just 8,905.

Before I knew it, I was back in my student flat, and feeling flat, the season now over for me. A few friends joined me in the local for some post-game chat. Elsewhere, Manchester City won promotion back to the topflight by beating Charlton Athletic in front of 47,000 at Maine Road, while Tottenham lost 1-5 at home to Watford.

However, events would turn darker. This was the day of the Bradford City fire at Valley Parade, where fifty-six lives were lost during their game with Lincoln City. This was also the day of riots at Birmingham City vs. Leeds United when a young lad, attending his first-ever game, was killed, crushed by a wall at St. Andrews.

This were vivid, visceral, vibrant days, but also terrible days too.

Let’s get back to 2025.

The three of us, in our apartment on the long Westgate Road, slept in on the Saturday and eventually headed over the water to Gateshead at around 12.30pm. This was another hot and sunny day, and there were pubs to be visited. We began with a drink in “The Central Bar”, and followed this with a couple in “Station East” and one in “Microbus”, all very different, but all very welcoming and pleasant. Later, we strode up the hill for a couple in “The Tynesider” and we then ended our grand tour of Gateshead by spending a few hours in “The Grey Nag’s Head”.

A half-empty boozer, drinkers drinking, songs going, the sun creating patterns as the light dances off windows and mirrors, the chatter and laughter of the locals, the clink of glasses, and the whispers of a distant past.

At about 9.30pm – yes, we had been on it for around nine hours – I got the call from my mate Chris, an Everton fan who had just returned, ironically, from an away game at Fulham. I took a cab to meet up with him and his daughter in “The Newcastle Tap” opposite the train station. I stayed chatting with him for a good hour and a half.

Then, the fool that I am, I ended up with a few Chelsea mates in “Popworld” on the infamous Bigg Market. There was a late-night pizza with “Walton & Hersham Bob” before I apparently jumped a taxi queue and ordered a cabbie to take me home.

I eventually crawled in at around 2am.

I think.

On the Sunday morning, Parky woke me.

“It’s ten thirty mate.”

“Fackinell.”

My immediate thoughts?

“Noon. What a ridiculous time for a game of football.”

“Shit, that’s only ninety minutes away.”

“After the game, I am going straight back to bed.”

“Never again.”

We caught a cab at 11am and were soon walking towards the familiar steel and glass of St. James’ Park.

The three of us caught a lift, as always, up to the away section in The Gods.

There was time for a little joke. We were told to press the button for Tier Seven. We wondered what was in Tier Eight.

“The trophy room” I replied.

“But there is no Tier Eight.”

“Exactly, I replied.”

*Admittedly this would work better had they not won the League Cup Final on 16 March, but in the circumstances, it made us laugh.

I met up with a few friendly faces in the concourse, which looks out and over the greenery of Leazes Park, where there are plans to, maybe, build a new stadium for the team.

I spotted Alan in conversation with PD and Parky.

Sadly, Alan had some awful news for me, but needed to tell me face to face rather than via text or ‘phone. Albert, the lad who has sat in front of me in the Matthew Harding Upper since 1997, sadly passed away in the days after the Liverpool home match.

I was so sad. We hugged. Albert, a postman, had apparently been taken ill at work and, we think, soon passed away. We do not know the details.

I raised a glass of “Diet Coke” to his memory and it just seemed so pathetic.

With my head spinning with that news, and a general light-headedness from the drinking the previous night, I lethargically took my spot alongside Gary, John and Alan. I reached my place just as the mosaics were reaching their peak down below me, but I was in no mood to appreciate the scene.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Albert.

Before I knew it, the game had began below me.

Quick, the team.

Sanchez

Caicedo – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

Lavia – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Madueke

Jackson

I noted the “C-Section” defence and tried to think of a punchline. And then I thought of Robert Sanchez.

I couldn’t believe that Gary alongside me was wearing a shirt, a pullover, a jacket and a hat. He must have been roasting. As it was, he was soon roasting Anthony Gordon, likening him to Clare Balding. He had a point.

There was an early attack up at the Gallowgate End and Pedro Neto won a corner, but it was all to no avail. Soon after, we found ourselves scurrying around after a Newcastle break. Moises Caicedo tackled Gordon well, but the ball was picked up and sent out to Jacob Murphy. His low ball across the six-yard box was prodded in by Sandro Tonali.

Fuck it.

The locals roared, and I looked over to them to my right. They were going ballistic.

“E-I-E-I-E-I-O, UP THE PREMIER LEAGUE WE GO.”

I felt crushed so soon into the game.

And I thought of Albert.

To be honest, despite the importance of this game, I found it hard to concentrate. But this was such an important game. I mentioned to a few friends before the match that I had not known a league game at St. James’ Park with so much on it for both teams since that classic in 1984.

We looked lack-lustre and tired, and our away support were quiet and subdued. In fact, as the first half meandered on, I hardly heard a single shout from us. It was all too tame.

Cole Palmer, our great hope, misfired on a few occasions. A Caicedo shot bobbled wide.

This was horrible.

And I thought of Albert.

On thirty-five minutes, a high ball and an aerial challenge between Nicolas Jackson and Sven Botman. A yellow card for Jackson.

Then, a VAR review. And a red card for Jackson. It was all too far away for me to really see what had happened. Jackson seemed to take ages to eventually walk off the pitch.

Sigh.

We were really up against it now. In fact, did we have a chance at all? It didn’t seem like it. Everything seemed so flat. Bizarrely, the home team hardly showed much desire to go at us.

This was a really odd game.

I sat at half-time, quiet, in a reflective mood.

I remembered how Albert – for a while – used to time his toilet breaks with Chelsea goals so we would often urge him, if we were needing a goal, to pay a visit.

I remembered how I would often touch my telephoto lens against the back of his head.

“Sorry mate.”

He loved his trips to New Zealand every winter.

Bless him.

At the break, Reece James replaced Noni Madueke. Our formation looked pretty fluid, like a Saturday night out in Gateshead, and as the second half started, somehow, we improved.

And us, the fans, realised the severity of the situation and, maybe feeling rather guilty for our first half no show, royally got behind the team.

Soon into the second period, two things impressed me and maybe galvanised a new spirit in the team. First, there was that ridiculously sturdy but fair tackle by Our Reece. Then, not long after, that robust shoulder challenge by Our Moises.

On the hour, a beautiful pass found Cucurella on an angle but his studied drive was tipped around by Nick Pope.

“It’s all us now.”

The noise levels rose as the second half progressed and I was so proud of the volume of our support. Maybe the first half silence was a direct result of too many bevvies in the Bigg Market, too many gins in Gateshead, too many daiquiris on the Quayside and too many ouzos in Ouseburn.

“It’s Salomon!”

A fantastic tackle by Levi Colwill thwarted Newcastle at the Gallowgate End.

On seventy-five minutes, two changes.

Malo Gusto for Romeo Lavia

Jadon Sancho for Trevoh Chalobah

God know who was playing where.

The hometown fans aired a song from days of old :

“Sing yer hearts out for the lads.”

Enzo tested Pope but the shot was tipped over.

The home fans roared again :

“New-cas-ul, New-cas-ul, New-cas-ul.”

On eighty-seven minutes, the ball was worked from the left flank to the right flank and Gusto sent over a teasing cross. However, despite a free leap, James got under the ball, and it looped over.

FACKINELL.

That was our chance.

There was still time for one final twist of the knife. On ninety minutes, Bruno Guimaraes advanced and aimed. His shot took a deflection – weird how it could be seen from over one hundred yards away – and the ball looped in.

Bollocks.

At the end of the game, with the Geordies bouncing, the buggers then played “Parklife” and then “Chelsea Dagger” and I bet they thought that was funny.

So, it was not to be. Our poor recent record at St. James’ Park continues, and the home team strengthened their Champions League claims for next season.

I met up with the troops at the bottom of the fourteen flights of steps and we – Parky, PD, Rich, Matt, Rich’s nephew and me – sloped down to a bar for a few post-game drinks and a bite to eat. It would be a relatively early night this one. I think I was tucked up by nine o’clock, ready for the long haul down south on the Monday.

Next up, a Friday night date with Manchester United.

STOKE ON TRENT : 11 MAY 1985

NEWCASTLE ON TYNE : 11 MAY 2025

Tales From Another Chelsea Win

Posted on April 27, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Everton : 26 April 2025.

This is a game that I might not have attended.

Had Frome Town needed points against AFC Totton for survival in Step Three of the non-league pyramid, there was a chance that I would be missing this Chelsea match. However, my hometown team’s presence in the Southern League Premier South was extinguished on Easter Saturday after the briefest of one season stays and so I was not required to make that heart-wrenching decision.

Chelsea won again.

It was a phrase that I hoped to be reporting after the game.

What of this day, then?

We didn’t really appreciate the 12.30pm kick-off as it would mean that the pre-match would be ridiculously squeezed into a ninety-minute period before 11.30am. Everton, revitalised under the returning David Moyes, would prove a difficult nut to crack, but after a little run of four unbeaten games, there was hope that Chelsea would prevail. Suddenly, a top five or six or seven finish was looking likely, despite my recent protestation of us finishing eighth.

I was up at 5.45am. I always aim to get to PD’s house in Frome bang on 7am and I am annoyed if I am even a minute late. I left my house at 6.43am. I still had to fuel up, but I shot over to Nunney Catch to do so and pulled up at his house in Frome at 6.59am.

Result.

After the game, the instruction from PD was to get him back to Frome as soon as possible so he could then drive down to a night of merriment in Burnham-on-Sea where he owns a static caravan.

“Should be back by 6pm, mate.”

To get to London as soon as possible, we ate our McBreakfast on the hoof to save precious minutes. We noted heavier-than-usual traffic going into the city at 9am. This was a very busy weekend in the capital; not only were Chelsea at home, but both FA Cup semi-finals were scheduled, the Eubank vs. Benn fight was taking place at Tottenham on Saturday night and the London Marathon was on the Sunday. However, I dropped the lads off on the Fulham High Street at around 9.45am. So far, so good.

I drove up from Fulham into Hammersmith and parked on Charleville Road once again, and then quickly walked to West Kensington to catch a tube down to Putney Bridge. I walked into “The Eight Bells” at 10.25am, aware that I had probably lost my usual seat at the table with Salisbury Steve, Lord Parky, P-Diddy and Jimmy the Greek.

Not to worry. I walked over to chat to two lads who I had invited along to the packed pub for their first-ever Chelsea pre-match. I have known Philip, from Baltimore, as a Chelsea mate on Facebook for a few years, and he was perched at a high table with his good friend Douglas. We chatted for the best part of an hour about all things Chelsea first and foremost, all things Baltimore, all things Philadelphia – ahead of the two games in June – and all things sport. We have a few mutual friends and so that is always nice.

The two lads loved the cosy intimacy of the pub, and we were able to regale each other of our Chelsea stories.

Phil became a Chelsea supporter right after the 1997 FA Cup Final triumph, and this resonated with me since I became hooked while at my village school around the time of the 1970 FA Cup win. I told them of how my fanaticism at an early age was remarkably intense. I told the story of me, at the age of five or six, receiving a Liverpool duffel bag from my paternal grandfather and being mortified that he had not realised my Chelsea fascination. I remember the annoyance of both parents too. Phil had a ticket for the Shed Lower during the 2019/20 season but never attended because of COVID. This would be his second Chelsea game in London, however, after the Palace semi-final in 2023. This was a game that I, ironically, did not attend as I was not allowed in with my SLR camera.

Douglas was out in Ghana in around 2006 when he became fascinated with that area’s love of Chelsea, via Michael Essien, his favourite Chelsea player, and so he soon chose us as his club. This would be his first-ever Chelsea game in the UK, though he might have seen us play a game in the US.

It was horrible to hear that both had to resort to expensive tickets in West View instead of watching their first-ever Chelsea games at HQ in the more traditional strongholds of the MHL or The Shed.

It seemed that there were coincidences throughout our chit-chat. Phil and I found out that we follow the same NHL team, the Vancouver Canucks (me very loosely), and that Douglas and I share the same birthday.

However, despite the three of us getting along so well, I did warn them.

“If we lose today, you’re not fucking coming back.”

They set off early, and then the rest of us headed up to Stamford Bridge around twenty minutes later.

I stood at the CFCUK stall for a few moments with a few acquaintances, good loyal and friendly Chelsea supporters all, as Kerry Dixon walked by. He wasn’t feeling too bright so was off home after a little spell with the hospitality team. He spotted a few faces and approached us.

“Ah, this is the hierarchy, is it?”

“More like the lowerarchy, Kerry” I replied.

With that, I took a few photos of the bustling scene outside the ground, hid my SLR, and entered via my usual “lucky turnstile.”

I was in at just gone midday.

On this occasion, Alan was up in Barrow following his Bromley in their last away game of this successful first season in the Football League. He had sold his ticket on the exchange to a lad from Latvia, proudly wearing a Chelsea trackie-top, and his sister was momentarily in my seat. Her ticket was towards the top of the stand. We moved things around and Clive took the spare seat in front so they could sit together. I sat next to PD who was eventually in Alan’s seat.

PD was the spectator-equivalent of an inverted full-back.

Rob told me that he was off to see Walton & Hersham directly after our game, another “double-header” successfully navigated. His team are, of course, in the Southern League Premier South, just like Frome for this season.

It was another cracking day in London. I looked over at the three-thousand Everton fans and wondered if this visit would end up following a well-worn pattern.

Everton’s last league win at Stamford Bridge was on 26 November 1994.

Should we win, again, today, it would be the thirtieth consecutive year of being unbeaten against them.

“No pressure, Chelsea.”

The teams entered the pitch.

No flames but flags in The Shed.

Us?

Sanchez

Caicedo – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

Lavia – Fenandez

Neto – Palmer – Madueke

Jackson

I posted on Facebook : “I’m playing right-back next week.”

The game began and I wondered where on earth the inspiration for Everton’s horrible dark grey and yellow kit originated.

Right then, we attacked The Shed.

In possession, we became a back three of Cucurella, Colwill and Our Trev moving over to the right, with Moises Caicedo joining up with Enzo and Lavia in the middle, and God Help Everton.

Joking apart, we began well and apart from an Everton free kick in the first few minutes it was all Chelsea for the first twenty minutes. Apart from a noisy flurry at the start from Everton, their support soon quietened down and they hardly sung a note.

On nine minute, a great early ball from Levi Colwill found Cole Palmer in an advanced role but he could not direct a shot on goal. I love us mixing it up occasionally, to keep the opposing defence on their toes. Pedro Neto was staying wide, and I loved it. On thirteen minutes, a positive run from Noni Madueke into a good position but Jordan Pickford was able to save at full stretch, the ball tipped around the far post.

The noise from both sets of fans had quietened by now.

We dominated possession and tried to open up the Everton defence. Virtually all their grey-shirted players were behind the ball, and space was a premium. I wondered if we were in for another hour or so of tedious chess play.

On twenty-five minutes, a free kick from the right and Pickford flapped and the clearance was poor but Marc Cucurella’s bouncing effort went just wide.

On twenty-seven minutes, Everton tried to build a rare attack, but a through ball aimed at Beto was intercepted well by Our Trev who pushed the ball to Enzo. He spotted the unmarked Jackson, left up field after an attack, and in space. The striker received the ball, turned, and with nobody coming to close him down, drilled a low shot into the goal. The dive from Pickford was in vain. To my joy, I was right behind the shot. I saw it all.

It really was a stunningly simple goal, but very well executed by the often-abused Jackson.

He ran off to celebrate and the Stamford Bridge crowd purred their approval.

Alan, in Barrow : “THTCAUN.”

Chris, in The Sleepy Hollow : “COMLD.”

And all was well with the world.

The game returned to its normal pattern, but I commented to Paul that “we have played worse than this during the season.”

It was decent stuff. Noni and Neto were causing Everton some concerns out wide, Enzo was aggressive and involved, while the returning Romeo Lavia was at his understated best, a modern day Johnny B. Cucurella was as playing to his usual high standards and Caicedo was Caicedo, probably my player of the year. However, Palmer seemed to be struggling.

I said to Paul that if someone, new to our team and watching for the first time, was told that one of our players was being heralded as one of the best young players in the world before Christmas, not many would guess it was our number twenty.

In injury-time, a header that ended up going ridiculously wide seemed like Everton’s first attack in ages, maybe since 1994.

At the break, I remembered two fantastic moments.

Firstly, the Everton player Iliman Ndiaye bamboozled his markers with incredible fleet-footed skill. The ball was touched quickly between feet, down near the touchline in front of the West Stand, and it was an impressive a piece of skullduggery that I have seen for a while.

Secondly, not so far away from that part of the pitch, the ball was played quickly out of defence to Pedro Neto and he had the defender at his mercy. He was running at pace; the defender was back-peddling and was completely unsure which way Neto would push the ball. As a former right winger, I really appreciated that moment. Neto had the defender just where he wanted him with acres of space to run into. He tapped the ball a few times, just to prolong the agony. A quick shimmy one way, the ball went the other, and it was just like me against Gary Witcombe in a house football match in early 1978 all over again.

Bliss.

At half-time, my good friend Pete – from London, then San Francisco, now Seattle, I met him in Los Angeles in 2007 – came down for a few words and we made plans to see each other in Philly in June.

The game re-started.

What looked like a rotten corner from Neto on the far side, was rescued by Madueke at the near post and he almost turned and screwed a shot in, but Pickford saved with his feet.

On fifty-three minutes, a poorly executed back pass to Pickford saw Jackson one on one but Pickford was just able to clear in time. Just after, a fine Madueke cross into the danger area, but no Chelsea player was close enough to apply the coup de grace. Then just after this, Chalobah glanced a header just wide.

On fifty-three minutes, it was time for the much-maligned Robert Sanchez to shine. Beto was played in after an errant pass out of defence by Colewill. The Everton striker shot low from an angle but, thankfully, Sanchez dropped low to his right and kept it out at full stretch.

On sixty-seven minutes, Reece James replaced Lavia.

On sixty-six minutes, Reece to right back, Moises to the base of the midfield.

Once we had the ball, “budge up.”

A shot from Idrissa Gueye was straight at Sanchez. From his throw out, Caicedo ran strong and long at the defence, with defenders snapping at his heels, but his shot was wide. From the resulting corner, Cucurella forced a save from Pickford, the ‘keeper reaching up to gather.

On seventy-seven minutes, Madueke went down after a coming together of bodies, and we all thought he was play-acting. He was motionless for a while but then returned to the action. Then, within seconds, he was running at pace at the Everton defence and forced Pickford to make another fine, sprawling save.

Pickford had to save again moments later, this time keeping out Cucurella’s header from the resulting corner.

Everton’s support was roused by an upturn in their play, and we could hear them again. To be truthful, Stamford Bridge wasn’t noisy at all during this lunch-time game. During this second-half, we seemed to be a lot more sloppy, and made a few silly errors. We begged for a calming second goal.

Jackson thought he that had scored but it was chalked off for offside by VAR, no complaints.

On seventy-eight minutes, Jadon Sancho replaced Madueke on the left.

On eighty-six minutes, another fantastic save as Everton went close with a volleyed, side-footed effort from Dwight McNeil.

Two late substitutions.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Palmer.

Tyrique George for Jackson.

There was another fine save from Sanchez from Youssef Chermiti in the closing moments.

One last free kick from Everton, a strong leap from Reece James, the ball was headed away, and that was that.

Chelsea won again.

“It’s a bloody good job they haven’t got a striker…”

There was heavy traffic as I headed up the North End Road and made my way home. All eyes were on the clock.

Returning home, I was to learn some fantastic news regarding two Chelsea mates.

Ian, who often drinks in The Eight Bells, was at Brackley Town for the day and saw his team beat Kidderminster Harriers 5-0 to gain promotion to the National League, the much-vaunted Step One. Like me, he had a tough decision – Brackley or Chelsea – but was rewarded.

Leggo, my mate from 1984/85, was at Bedford Town and saw his home team win 2-0 against Stourbridge and gain promotion from the Southern League Central to the National League South. It is worth noting that both Bedford and Frome were promoted from Step 4 last season and while Frome have sadly returned, Bedford have moved on. It’s an incredible story. Also, the club survived a belittling take-over bid from the moneyed, yet uncredible, Real Bedford in the past week or so.

Elsewhere, Rob’s Walton & Hersham beat Swindon Supermarine 4-1, and as for Frome Town, we lost 0-4.

To complete my review of the non-league scene, I have something a lot more local.

While Frome Town lost 1-0 to Weston-super-Mare in the final of the Somerset Premier Cup, my village team Mells & Vobster United won the Somerset Junior Cup Final against fierce local rivals Coleford Athletic 3-1 during the week.

Oh, and I reached Frome at 5.58pm.

Chelsea vs. Everton :

1995/96 Drew 0-0

1996/97 Drew 2-2

1997/98 Won 2-0

1998/99 Won 3-1

1999/2000 Drew 1-1

2000/01 Won 2-1

2001/02 Won 3-0

2002/03 Won 4-1

2003/04 Drew 0-0

2004/05 Won 1-0

2005/06 Won 3-0

2006/07 Drew 1-1

2007/08 Drew 1-1

2008/09 Drew 0-0

2009/10 Drew 3-3

2010/11 Drew 1-1

2011/12 Won 3-1

2012/13 Won 2-1

2013/14 Won 1-0

2014/15 Won 1-0

2015/16 Drew 3-3

2016/17 Won 5-0

2017/18 Won 2-0

2018/19 Drew 0-0

2019/20 Won 4-0

2020/21 Won 2-0

2021/22 Drew 1-1

2022/23 Drew 2-2

2023/24 Won 6-0

2024/25 Won 1-0

Tales From The Famous Chelsea

Posted on April 8, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 3 April 2025.

I am always the same. While sitting at my desk at work from 6am to 2pm, I was occasionally worried about the evening’s key Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur match. No other fixture gets to me in quite the same fashion. No other game makes me as agitated.

I guess that it is all because of “The Run”; the run of fixtures at Stamford Bridge since late 1990 that has seen Chelsea only lose once against “that lot” from N17 in thirty-four home league games. Throw in an unbeaten five cup games at home and it comes to one defeat in thirty-nine matches.

It’s an unbelievable show of dominance of one topflight team over another. I have stated before that this must be the most one-sided record between two teams in any main league’s topflight over a thirty-five-year period.

Long may it continue, eh?

It had been eighteen ridiculously long days since our last game, a scratchy 1-0 win at home to Leicester City, and it felt great to be heading back along the M4 once again. It felt especially nice to have PD back alongside me after missing the last two games.

In that gap of eighteen games, my football obsession was satiated by attending five Frome Town matches.

Paulton Rovers vs. Frome Town : 18 March.

First up was a Somerset Premier Cup semi-final at nearby Paulton Rovers. This was a relatively easy 3-1 win in a fast and physical game against a team now two divisions below us after playing at the same level last season.

Basingstoke Town vs. Frome Town : 22 March.

I went with my mate Glenn to the league game at Basingstoke and met up with my Chelsea pal Leigh, from Basingstoke, in a local pub beforehand. On nearing Basingstoke, I admitted to Glenn that “I am glad I am seeing Frome play today and not Chelsea” and it felt like a seminal moment. It wasn’t a great game, but a James Ollis goal gave us a vital three points in our bid for survival.

Frome Town vs. Wimborne Town : 25 March.

Next up, was a run of three home league games. Unfortunately, the first of these was a very poor match in which last season’s bitter rivals Wimborne Town beat us 1-0. The, however, gate was a creditable 531.

Frome Town vs. Hungerford Town : 29 March.

A very decent crowd of 659 saw us lose 1-0 again, against Hungerford Town, in a game that was of slightly better quality than against Wimborne but our lack of firepower in front of the goal was again very telling. We were still mired in a relegation place.

Frome Town vs. Weston-super-Mare : 2 April.

Some respite came in the final of the Somerset Premier Cup, played at Bath City’s Twerton Park, against National League South outfit Weston-super-Mare. Our opponents played a young team, but despite several chances to score, we succumbed to yet another 1-0 loss. Our lack of goals has plagued us all season.

Talking of other games, we return to 1984/85, and the briefest of mentions of the next match in my forty-year retrospective. On Saturday 30 March 1985, Chelsea travelled to Roker Park for a league game against Sunderland. I didn’t travel to this, and I don’t think many Chelsea did. The gate was a miserly 13,489. This came not long after them defeating us in the Milk Cup semi-finals and I don’t think it exactly captured the imagination of the Chelsea support. It also came six days after Sunderland lost 1-0 to Norwich City in the final so I don’t think it captured the imagination of the home support either. However, we came away from the game with a nice 2-0 win with goals from Kerry Dixon and a Micky Thomas penalty.

After grabbing a tasty bite to eat at a café – “222” – on the North End Road, I flew down to “The Eight Bells” where I chatted with PD, Parky, Salisbury Steve, Jimmy the Greek and Ian inside the pub and my fellow Sleepy Hollow companion Clive – a first visit for him to our local – and his mate John on the tables outside.

During the day I had found out that the Fulham team changed in this pub when the team used to play at a local patch of land now occupied by Raneleigh Gardens. This would have been between 1886 and 1888. There’s football history everywhere in SW6 if you know where to look.

From this particular part of Fulham, we caught a tube up to the Broadway, and I was inside the stadium at 7.30pm.

The team?

We were so glad that both Cole Palmer and Nicolas Jackson had returned.

Sanchez

Gusto – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

I chuckled as the “Dug Out Club Wankers” were drenched by the pitch sprinklers as they made their ceremonial walk across the centre of the pitch before the game.

It was if George Anstiss was having one last laugh from above.

“Get orf my bleedin’ pitch.”

Nearing kick-off, we were treated to a bizarre song to warm us all up and get us in the mood for football.

“You Shook Me All Night Long” by ACDC.

Answers on a fucking postcard.

That ain’t Chelsea, it ain’t even football.

Thankfully, we were soon back to the much more suitable “London Calling” by The Clash.

Then the dimming of the lights, but thankfully no flames in front of the East Stand. As the teams appeared, The Shed was a riot of colour. In the top tier, many flags were waved, while a large banner was draped from the balcony.

THE FAMOUS CHELSEA

Back in the ‘eighties, The Shed used to bellow “we are the famous, the famous Chelsea” but that seems to have died a death since then. The Geordies, however, still chant something similar to this day.

My mate Rob had appeared next to me just as the huge banner was beginning to be displayed and had sagely commented :

“You watch it unravel.”

I wondered if this might prove to be a worrying metaphor for, perhaps, the game ahead.

Meanwhile, down in the Matthew Harding Lower a huge – new – crowd surfer flag depicted The Rising Sun and Gus Mears.

This was a nice homage at both ends of the stadium for “CFC 120” as the club has termed it.

There was a change from the usual “Liquidator” by the Harry J All Stars with a perfectly timed incision of “Blue Is The Colour” into the pre-match routine leading right up to kick-off. I loved it that the crowd continued singing once the song had been forced into early retirement by the start of the match.

“So cheer us on through the sun and the rain ‘cus Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.”

And what a start.

From the whistle, the noise was deafening, the best of the season by far, and the returning striker Jackson almost caused immediate joy. Put through by Trevoh Chalobah, he raced on and found himself one-on-one with Guglielmo Vicario. There was a prod at goal, saved, but a crazy passage of play saw Micky Van de Ven attempt to clear, but the ball was hacked against Jackson’s shin. Our pulses were racing here, but sadly we saw the ball ricochet back off the right-hand post. There would be no celebrations in front of Parkyville just yet.

On six minutes, Marc Cucurella to Malo Gusto but just wide. That shot is featured here.

In the first quarter of an hour, I was very happy to see a far greater level of intensity and a much better desire to release the ball early, especially compared to the bore-fest at Arsenal.

Simply put, the threat of a pacey Jackson made all the difference since we now had a focus of our attack. On the right, Pedro Neto was also able to concentrate on his wing duties rather than ponce around in the middle and lose his way.

On eighteen minutes, a nice move twixt Jadon Sancho and Palmer on the left and there was a mad scramble in the Tottenham six-yard box, but Vicario was able to block virtually on the line.

There was a delightful turn / shimmy / dragback from Sancho that set up Palmer but the ball went out for a corner.

Dogged play from Jackson on twenty-eight minutes, hounding his defender, but a shot was blazed over.

By the half-hour mark, we were well on top, with Tottenham only threatening sporadically, mainly through Son Heing-min and Lucas Bergvall. Sancho showed lots of skill in tight areas but there was an infuriating reluctance to shoot. On the visitors’ rare breaks inside our final third, I loved the way that our players flung themselves at the ball to block. This showed spirit and character, and long may it thrive.

A lovely move on forty-four minutes resulted in a deep Neto cross from the right which was nicely met by Sancho. His wicked shot was on target but was incredibly well tipped over by Vicario.

At the other end, Robert Sanchez had been so quiet.

As the first half ended, we were happy, and there was a lovely sound of applause from the home areas.

In the concourse at the break, I spotted a chap with a River Plate shirt and I tapped him on the shoulder and could not resist the word “Boca” and a smile, but I wish, now, that I had stopped and asked if he was an Enzo fan.

Because everything was about to change.

After an early shot on goal from Palmer that tested Vicario again, the ball found its way to the feet of our talisman from Mancunia. I snapped as he eyed up the opportunity to cross.

His ball into the danger area was absolute perfection.

This felt right.

With my camera still poised, I snapped as Enzo – ex-River Plate – rose and planted the ball home.

MY ENZO.

GET IN.

The stadium exploded.

I was boiling over but shot a load of photos as the Argentinian raced towards us.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap,snap.

Enzo was hidden, submerged, for a few seconds, and I love the ecstasy on the face of players and supporters alike.

There had been a worry in the pub beforehand that without many local lads in our squad, the importance of this game against this opponent would be lost.

We need not have worried.

I looked at Alan.

We both smiled.

Paul Hogan : “They’ll have to come at us now.”

Barry Humphries : “Come on my little diamonds.”

Just after, Enzo attempted a very ambitious bicycle kick just past the penalty spot.

“Easy tiger.”

Two minutes after, the ball came out to the excellent Moises Caicedo from an Enzo free-kick, and he lashed it home.

The place erupted again, and I found it difficult to focus my camera on the melee in the far corner as the North Stand was moving so much.

Alas, VAR.

Alas, no goal.

Alas, a hairline offside from Levi Colwill.

Alas, the game we love is being strangled.

On sixty-three minutes, a massively wide effort from Neto, the ball curling out around ten yards from the corner flag in front of the West Stand.

Fackinell.

Tottenham went close on sixty-five minutes.

A substitution : Noni Madueke for Sancho.

Then, on sixty-nine minutes, Pape Matar Sarr broke and smashed a low drive from around thirty-five yards along the ground and seemingly at Sanchez. Our ‘keeper, maybe thinking about his post-match meal, his summer holiday, a long-lost unrequited love from his early years, or how the Matthew Harding roof stays up, wasn’t with it and his despairing dive only resulted in the ball deflecting high and into the roof of the net.

Bollocks.

Thankfully, a foul on Caicedo was spotted.

VAR.

A ridiculously long wait.

And I hate it how players from both teams were allowed to stand so close to referee Craig Pawson as he studied the pitch-side TV screen.

In such circumstances, the players should be corralled within the centre-circle.

Right?

Anyway, no goal.

Alan and I remained still and silent.

I don’t cheer VAR decisions in our favour.

Fuck VAR.

However, the noise levels increased.

“This is more like it.”

I loved how Enzo twisted and turned down below me in the box, despite running out of space. His was a really fine performance on this night.

Vicario then saved from that man Enzo.

Another substitution : Reece James for Jackson.

Over on the far touchline, manager Maresca seemed to be getting the crowd in the East Lower pumped up. I noted that he was wearing a tangerine sweatshirt under his jacket, and it immediately brought memories of those orange sweatshirts that the players used to wear during their “kicking in” before games in the ‘seventies.

Twelve minutes of injury time.

Gulp.

Two more substitutions : Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Enzo, Tosin Adarabioyo for Palmer.

I whispered to Alan : “anything could happen here, mate.”

The clock ticked…

I loved it when Dewsbury-Hall made two crunching tackles and after both his teammates raced over to “high-five” him.

Great team spirit.

The noise boomed.

To “Amazing Grace” :

“CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA.”

In the very last minute, however, our nerves were sorely tested as Tottenham broke rapidly. Dominic Solanke – who? – played the ball to Brennan Johnson who crossed low towards Son at the far post. He slid and poked it goalwards, but Sanchez – I take it all back – made a remarkable recovery to move to his right and block the goal-bound effort.

Phew.

It was an absolutely magnificent save.

Soon after, the final whistle blew.

Thankfully, the famous Chelsea Football Club didn’t unravel.

Not this time.

Tales From Seven O’Clock On A Sunday Evening

Posted on December 24, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Brentford : 15 December 2024.

There was much consternation about Chelsea pushing the kick-off time for our West London derby with Brentford back to 7pm. At seven o’clock on a Sunday evening, people should be close to home, going through those sometimes-annoying Sunday evening rituals ahead of a new week of work, school or college. It’s an out-dated expression these days, but Sundays were always days of rest. Football fans – “those who go” – at such a time on Sundays, should at least be well on our way home from a game. With a 4.30pm kick-off common in these days of football being the slave to TV, it is pretty tough to be setting off for home after a game in Liverpool or Manchester at 7pm.

However, at 7pm on a Sunday, football fans should not be rushing to get into a stadium to see the start of a game.

Sigh.

Chelsea deemed that the players needed an extra, say, four hours of rest after their trip to Almaty and the game the previous Thursday. I find this all a bit ridiculous. I am sure that the squad and management travelled on direct flights in style. Did they really require, effectively, four extra hours in bed? I doubt it.

Whatever. 7pm it was.

Ironically, the delayed kick-off worked for me. It meant that when I reached home just before midnight on the Saturday, I did not have to get up too early on the Sunday.

From the cheap seats : “What are you moaning for then?”

Me : “My personal situation doesn’t change the absurdity of it.”

I suppose I got to sleep at about 1.30am. I had, like the returning Chelsea players I suspect, managed to get a lot of sleep on my Azerbaijan Airlines flight home, and I woke at 9am feeling fresh.

I was planning to head up to Chelsea at 1.30pm or so.

No rush.

As I mentioned in the Astana blog, Frome Town had walloped Swindon Supermarine 3-0 at home on the Saturday. This was a huge fillip. It was our second successive league win and the first home win of the season. For the game with Brentford, I was travelling up to Stamford Bridge with my friend Courtney from Chicago. He so enjoyed his first Frome Town game in October that he was back for more. He was more than happy to combine Chelsea and Frome Town again. At 12.30pm we met up for a Sunday Roast at a local pub in a nearby village. This was, officially, Courtney’s first-ever roast on a Sunday in England. The roast beef went down a treat.

At about 1.45pm we set off for Chelsea. The trip up was pretty decent, and we chatted about all things Chelsea and all things Frome.

At around 4.45pm I was just about to park up in the usual place when I spotted new parking signs. We had been warned that new parking charges were coming into effect soon, but no solid date had been announced. I quickly did an about-turn and headed a few blocks north to Charleville Road. Here the parking was free after 5pm, rather than not until 10pm further south, nearer Lillie Road.

There was a short and brisk walk to West Kensington tube to Earls Court. As we changed platforms, I commented to Courtney about me first walking up towards the southbound District Line to Wimbledon in March 1974, over fifty years.

Courtney : “Probably the same steps.”

Chris : “Definitely the same legs.”

We shot through Fulham Broadway, always an odd feeling, and alighted at Putney Bridge. Here, PD and Parky – and a few other usual suspects – had been slurping since around 1pm. The two of them could not wait for my late arrival and, instead, had taken the train up to Paddington. Nothing gets in the way of a pre-match drink-up for these two Herberts. The place wasn’t too busy, and Courtney and I were able to find a quiet corner to sit and chat.

At just after 6pm, there was a call to arms and so Parky, PD, Courtney, Doncaster Paul, Jimmy the Greek, Nick the Greek and little old me set off for Stamford Bridge.

Forty years ago, to the very day, I made my way to Stamford Bridge alone. On Saturday 15 December 1984, Chelsea played Stoke City in Division One. I was now back in Somerset after spending my first term at North Staffs Poly, and it was odd that I was now watching my quasi-hometown team play at The Bridge. I travelled up by train to Paddington and my diary reports that I spent the morning doing what I often did on Chelsea home games. I toured the West End shopping areas – Oxford Street, Bond Street – on the look out for clobber in several shops. For the first time I spotted the “Giorgio Armani” shop on New Bond Street (not Emporio Armani, that came later) and baulked at the price of those delicious pullovers. “Gee2” was nearby, and their pullovers were similar. Alas, I was a mere student and would soon succumb to a cheaper “Robert Klein” rip-off version at a shop in Stoke. I remember that I bumped into my college room-mate Chris on Oxford Street, visiting from his home on Teesside. What a small world.

I remember that I had been talking to a Stoke fan, Tim – he looked like Lou Costello – at that party above a pub before the Sheffield Wednesday away game and he confidently predicted that Stoke would take “a firm” to Stamford Bridge, but I wasn’t confident that he was telling the whole truth. Beer, bravado and bullshit, more like.

I sat with Alan in the West Stand benches.

So much for Tim’s protestations of greatness. Stoke only brought between 75 and 100 fans in a crowd of just 20,534. A Stoke firm? No. Most of them looked infirm. I didn’t see him.

This was a dire match. The suspended David Speedie was sadly missed. Stoke defended and defended. On seventy minutes, Pat Nevin sent over a cross that Gordon Davies reached. Former Manchester City ‘keeper Joe Corrigan, deputising for Peter Fox, saved his header, but Kerry Dixon headed home the rebound. Sadly, a minute later, Paul Dyson slid in and prodded in an equaliser from close range.

It was a poor game on a dull afternoon in London. I returned back to Frome where I went out for a few beers with a mate who had returned from college in Tottenham for the Christmas period. I bumped into Glenn wearing one of those patchwork leather and suede jackets that were becoming a sought-after item, on London’s terraces if not further north, in 1984/85. I would later to succumb to one of those buggers, too.

In 1984/85, Brentford were in the Third Division, and a place at the top table would have been a pipedream. Yet they are an established topflight team these days and were victorious in each of their previous three visits to Stamford Bridge in the Premier League.

But I was confident. Cole Palmer was playing for us, right?

Indeed he was.

Us :

Sanchez.

Gusto – Tosin – Colwill – Cucarella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

Chelsea in blue, Brentford in red and white stripes.

Courtney had taken Clive’s place in The Sleepy hollow.

PD – Alan – Courtney – Chris

What a back four. No inverted full-backs here but no end of wide players though, myself included.

The Ron Harris Derby began.

There was an early header from Nicolas Jackson, and then the game flattened out a little, with slow build-ups from Chelsea in front of a Brentford midfield and defence that defended so deep that the players almost started shouting at each other with South London accents.

After the chill of Almaty, this was a ridiculously mild night in SW6.

There was an angled drive, again from Jackson, beautifully found by Moises Caicedo, as we dominated the ball. Their ‘keeper Mark Flekken blocked the effort. A couple more Chelsea efforts, from Palmer and Madueke emphasised our dominance.

On seventeen minutes, Robert Sanchez had us all worried when he mis-controlled the ball close to his goal line but was able to recover.

All of us pedants in The Sleepy Hollow, if not the entire Matthew Harding, became obsessed with two balls being on the pitch at the same time. A ball sat on the pitch a few yards from the goal-line.

We kept tut-tutting.

“The game should be stopped.”

“If a goal is scored, it really should not count.”

“The lino is not far away. Why can’t he flag the referee?”

“Has no official seen it?”

After a few minutes, a ball boy rose from his seat and picked it up and took it off, accompanied by, possibly, the loudest cheer of the game thus far.

I purred at the unreal close control from Palmer which set up a chance, but it went wide for a corner.

The chances were mounting, but I thought that we were half-a-second slow in our passing half-a-yard slow in our movement. It was too pedestrian.

A block from Colwill thwarted a Brentford effort from Mikkel Damsgaard, whoever he is.

It was mild in the stands too. Oh, modern football. The noise levels were dire.

However, on forty-three minutes, Malo Gusto pushed the ball out to Noni Madueke. He floated a fine ball into the box and Marc Cucarella attacked the ball. He guided a fine header down and in at the far post from the edge of the six-yard-box.

Get in you fucker.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

I silently dedicated the goal to all those fools who left for a half-time drink or slash just before.

At the break, mixed feelings. Happy to be ahead. Not overly happy with our approach play. But winning. Unlike against Stoke in 1984.

There wasn’t too much of a reaction from Brentford, and it was business as usual as the second half began.

It really was all us.

On the hour, a lovely move involving a wriggle and a dribble from our boy Palmer, and then a cross from Jadon Sancho set up the on-rushing Jackson. He could not believe the miss, high, and nor could any of us. Heads were nestled in hands throughout the Matthew Harding in a flash mob homage to “The Scream” by Edvard Munch.

Fackinell.

We kept going. Our chances came but nothing clearcut.

On seventy-two minutes after a little head tennis in our box, the ball was pumped back in and Christian Norgaard, whoever he is, settled himself before volleying at goal.

I knee-jerked a yelp of “goal!” but was utterly amazed by Sanchez’ amazing leap and save. It was magnificent.

On seventy-six minutes, the ball was out to the Brentford right and Cucarella had been sucked in, following the ball. A low cross was met by a stab by Fabio Carvalho and the ball smashed the crossbar before bouncing out, the ball landing right on the line.

Phew.

This was tense stuff now.

Come on Chelsea.

Jackson easily fell inside the box down below us and we groaned. Thankfully, not long after I caught the run from Jackson, released from deep by a lovely ball from Enzo, and snapped as he set himself up to breeze past Ethan Pinnock, and then fire low past Flekken.

GET IN YOU BEAUTY.

Just after, eighty-three minutes, Christopher Nkunku replaced Jackson.

He was warmly applauded.

“He’ll miss more than he will score, but what player is any different? He’s a threat.”

Rather than an easy slide into the last moments of the game, we were treated to some typical Chelsea nervousness after a sliding tackle from Tosin missed both ball and player and Bryan Mbeumo on a quick break was able to finish impeccably.

Seven minutes of extra time were signalled and the crowd grumbled. It was seven minutes of hell, but we held on. Cucarella had been as good as anyone. He had my vote for Man of the Match, so it was with some surprise and a little sadness that we learned that he was sent off after the final whistle.

However, second place.

What a bloody fantastic effort.

Tales From Forty Years Apart

Posted on December 4, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 1 December 2024.

The Famous Five were back together again for the home game against Aston Villa; I was on the road at 6.30am and by 7.30am my four passengers had been securely collected. I was alongside PD in the front while Glenn, Parky and Ron were squeezed into the back seats. Villa have faltered of late, and I think that the consensus in the car was of quiet optimism.

“If we win this, it would be a great statement of intent. Villa are no mugs. But we can bet them. If we win by three goals, we can rise to second place.”

My voice had begun strongly but tailed off. Deep down I thought that a win involving a margin of three goals might well be beyond us.

I was parked up at around 9.45am on a grey and slightly damp morning in the streets of Fulham. Time was of the essence during this particular pre-match and rather than take my time over a “sit down” breakfast at “Café Ole”, I quickly popped into the McMemory Lane Café further up the North End Road and scoffed a breakfast muffin.

You know what’s coming up, right?

Saturday 24 November 1984.

It was just after midday, and I was out and about in Stoke’s town centre. I can well remember the moment that I spotted a half-time score on a TV in an electronics shop on Church Street. Chelsea were playing against Tottenham at White Hart Lane, and it was an early 11.30am kick-off to deter excessive hooliganism. I saw the scoreline. We were 1-0 up. I bellowed a load “yes” and probably carried out a Stuart Pearson – who? – style fist pump. Being 1-0 up at the home of our most bitter rivals was one to celebrate. The goal came courtesy of Kerry once again, after just five minutes. Alas, Marc Falco – he was loaned to us two years previously, possibly one of our lowest of low points – equalised soon into the second-half for the home team. It left us in eighth place, and in a good state of health before the upcoming game at home to Football League and European Champions Liverpool the following Saturday.

Saturday 1 December 1984.

On the Friday, I had travelled back to Somerset, and on the morning of the game on the Saturday, I travelled up to London from Frome, by myself, by train. I was expecting to see Glenn en route but he was nowhere to be seen. This was to be the first in a double of huge home games in the month of December, with Manchester United visiting a few days after Christmas. There is no doubt that I was super-excited about the game with the red-shirted scousers. My record against them was perfect. Two games, two wins, at Stamford Bridge in 1878 and in 1982.

I got to Stamford Bridge ridiculously early and took in the early atmosphere. The place was excitedly expectant. I took my place on the back row of the West Stand Benches on a cold afternoon, alongside some friends who are mates to this day. A few rows behind us, up in the front rows was none other than Peter Osgood, my all-time hero. It was the first time I had seen The King since a game against Southampton eight years previously. My mate Alan took a photo of me before the game began. I remember I was sporting a pink Lacoste polo and a newly-acquired Robe di Kappa lambswool pullover from menswear shop in Stoke called “Matinique” where I had bumped into the Everton striker Adrin Heath a few weeks previously.

Eventually Glenn appeared after taking a later train from Frome and then Westbury. There was a ‘photo of him too, a picture of 1980’s Casualdom, with a bubble perm and a yellow Pringle.

I was obsessed by how many away fans of the various visiting clubs would show up at Stamford Bridge in 1984/85. There is no doubt at all that our home stadium had a fearsome reputation for away supporters, but I had been impressed with the West Ham following in early September, which must have reached the eight thousand level. Would Liverpool equal it? I wasn’t sure. From memory, they filled two pens, and a third was – as the game approached – mixed between home and away fans. There was a “set to” between the two sets of supporters in this third pen, and I can distinctly remember two things. There were around four thousand Scousers present.

Firstly, Alan – alongside me – said that he had spotted Hicky, the leader of the Chelsea pack, in the heart of the action. Secondly, I remember the Scousers letting off red flares, which hinted at their European history, and which I had never previously seen before at Stamford Bridge. One or two were propelled towards us in the West Stand. Needless to say, my little Kodak camera went into overdrive and captured a few of the red flashes between the two battling factions.

This only heightened the atmosphere. It was a dark afternoon, and the air of malevolence hung over the north terrace as thick as the London fogs of the pre-war years.

Chelsea attacked that same north terrace in the first-half and a move developed down the right, in front of the East Lower. Kerry Dixon raced down the right wing in front of the East Lower and kept going. From memory, he drew the ‘keeper and then slipped it in to put us 1-0 up. Only ten minutes had passed. There was wild and wanton euphoria on The Benches and elsewhere in the stadium too.

Sadly, Jan Molby equalised for Liverpool at The Shed End on twenty-eight minutes.

Thankfully, the second-half went our way with goals from Joe McLaughlin, a towering header just after the break – his first goal for us – and a third from David Speedie on seventy-six minutes giving us a fully deserved 3-1 win.

I was ecstatic.

My record against Liverpool was now an incredible 3-0, in an era when they were the stand-out team in England by a huge margin.

The gate was a huge 40,972. It added to the magnificence of it all.

Altogether now :

“Chelsea Are Back, Hello, Hello.”

On the Friday, in Frome, I had bought a copy of the new Cocteau Twins album “Treasure” and as I walked along the Fulham Road towards South Kensington tube station, to avoid the formidable crowds at Fulham Broadway, I listened to the album on my sub-Sony “Walkman”, an AIWA version. With the night now fallen, and with Christmas lights in the shop windows, with those glorious shimmering sounds providing a scintillating backdrop, I was able to go over the afternoon’s events, and it is a memory that lives with me to this day.

Every time, I hear that album – it is my favourite, my favourite ever – I am immediately transported back to that December evening in London some forty years ago.

And it was exactly forty years ago.

Fast forward to 1 December 2024, and I was back at Stamford Bridge yet again.

My pre-match was predictably busy and I spent it with Glenn and my friend Pete, and his son Calvin – from Seattle – at the hotel where The Shed once stood before meeting up with a smattering of mates from near and far in the “Eight Bells.”

The Normandy Division, headed by Ollie, was in town, and there was a visit from Johnny 12 Teams and his wife Jenni 12 Markets. Tommie from Porthmadog called in and we talked about Brazil. I had watched the final of the Coppa Libertadores on the Saturday night with the Botafogo vs. Atletico Mineiro game an exact copy of the last game I saw in Rio in July. Botafogo won 3-0 in July and 3-1 in December. They took the last spot in next season’s FFA World Club Cup in the US.

I was pleased that Botafogo won – it was some game – and cheered me up a little. Although I did not attend, Frome lost a “must-win” relegation six-pointer at Marlow earlier that day.

Inside Stamford Bridge, one friend was missing.

Alan, my mate from that day in 1984, was a hundred or so miles away following his other club Bromley in one of their biggest ever matches. They were at Solihull Moors in the Second Round Proper of the FA Cup. Ironically, the tie was against the same team that Bromley had beaten in their play-off final at the end of last season.

I often wonder if I will miss a Chelsea game in favour of a key Frome Town game. That time will come, I am sure.

The minutes passed until kick-off.

I have suffered recent technological nightmares with both my mobile phone and my laptop ceasing to work over the past fortnight. I bought a new ‘phone a week or so ago and upon firing up the wi-fi offered by Chelsea Football Club, I was again dismayed to see that during the set-up to get my new device registered, the list of reasons for my visit to Stamford Bridge included around eight options (such as Commercial Sponsor, Commercial Guest and Banqueting) but there was no mention of football.

It made me want to cry.

Where has it all gone wrong, Chowlsea?

Fackinell.

The team?

Sanchez

Caicedo – Fofana – Colwill – Cucarella

Lavia – Enzo

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

The game began at 1.30pm. It soon became apparent that Moises Caicedo pushed up and inside when we had the ball, and there was all sorts of fluidity going on at the top end of the pitch. It was enough for me to do to exactly work it all out.

The three of us regulars in The Sleepy Hollow – PD, Clive and yours truly – were joined by a lad from Los Angeles (his debut at Stamford Bridge) and a young woman from New York (her second visit) and as the game began, we tried our best to make them feel at home, but we warned them about the usual flurry of swearing.

The three thousand Villa fans were in decent voice and there was an early song honouring the well-loved Gary Shaw, who recently passed away.

I noticed that a few Sleepy Hollow regulars had arrived a little late, but I had to commend them as they arrived just in time to see us play the ball out to Marc Cucarella on the edge of the box who then whipped in a fine cross towards the near post. Nicolas Jackson was on hand to prod the ball in past Emiliano Martinez.

Chelsea 1 Villa 0.

Get in.

Just seven minutes had passed.

The visitors seemed happy to soak up the early pressure, but we were tested by a break away down below us in the inside-left channel by Ollie Watkins. Fearing danger, I yelled out “stay with him Fofana” but this is the exact opposite of what our French defender did. He appeared to trip over an imaginary leg, and Watkins left him for dead. We were oh-so thankful of Robert Sanchez’ alert block, his legs spread wide.

I thought to myself that Watkins would thrive in our team, but then immediately chastised myself for coveting a neighbour’s ox when we had Jackson within our midst, a very decent young player in his own right.

There were decent performances throughout our team as the first-half continued. The two wingers Pedro Neto and Jadon Sancho caught the eye, but Neto had more end product.

There was that rare sighting of an indirect free-kick well inside the opposing penalty box, but Cole Palmer’s effort was saved by Martinez, and Romeo Lavia’s follow-up was unsurprisingly blocked.

Sanchez gets some stick from us regarding his poor distribution, but Martinez made a howler himself, passing the ball straight to Jackson. Surely a goal here? Alas not, the ball would not sit up for a clean finish, and Martinez was saved blushes. This was not the only example of sloppy defensive play from the visitors.

On thirty-seven minutes, we won the ball in midfield via the twin powers of Caicedo – currently becoming one of my favourites – and Lavia. The ball was played to Enzo, and then to Palmer. Our Mancunian maestro, the stray dog, pushed the ball on to Enzo who had found space. A quick assessment of the moment, and Enzo despatched a low shot with unerring precision and the ball flew past his Argentinian teammate in the Shed End goal.

Chelsea 2 Villa 0.

How we celebrated. And how Enzo, the captain today, celebrated too, sliding into Parkyville and ending up lying still on the turf. He was soon mobbed by his teammates.

“And it’s super Chelsea. Super Chelsea FC.”

Oh we were all very happy at half-time.

Villa, I think, had been poor, and had rarely threatened. At times we had purred.

Clive spotted a change between the sticks for Villa. On came Robin Olsen for Martinez. We continued along similar lines as the first-half.

I had a little think back to the game at Leicester City the previous weekend. I realised how the dynamic of support had changed over the two matches. At Leicester, all three-thousand of us in that tight corner, all standing, in it together, out-numbered, grateful for anything, happy with any attack away from home, bellowing songs of support.

And now, in the comfort of home, sat, arms crossed, offering polite encouragement, almost as if we needed to be entertained.

There was a glorious tackle that Enzo won before steadying himself to play in Jackson, who ran on but sadly squandered the chance.

On the hour, the injured Fofana gave way to Benoit Badiashile.

Villa made changes themselves.

The quality of play dropped a little and we didn’t dominate quite as much.

Ross Barkley came on as sub and received a warm reception. He soon made his presence felt with a close-in header that Colwill did ever so well to head off the line.

I am sure that I wasn’t the only one begging for one more goal. Despite playing the far more impressive football, at 2-0, I was never content.

Another chance for Jackson, and one for Sancho too.

On seventy-one minutes, Enzo Maresca made a double-swap.

Noni Madueke for Sancho.

Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

I spoke to Max, from LA :

“You’re not missing out on any of our stars here, mate, they are all playing today.”

The game continued on, and I still begged for one more goal. The mercurial Palmer was involved as the game reached the last section and had one or two shots blocked.

On eighty-three minutes, a free-kick was taken quickly by Palmer out to Madueke, who returned the ball. Palmer took a touch, and although he was seemingly hemmed in by a gaggle of Villains, his firm strike at goal was perfectly despatched, its curve and its trajectory utterly beautiful.

It’s a good job he works in ballistics.

Chelsea 3 Villa 0.

Not only was the goal a stunning creation, the post-goal celebrations were magnificent too, and it made me tingle to see everyone so happy down below us.

One last change.

Joao Felix for Palmer.

This was a lovely performance from us, and one which solidified our place within the top echelons of the table. A special word for Marc Cucarella. What a fine performance; determined, aggressive, but never out of control, what a player. I loved his succession of headed clearances atv the back post in the second-half.

This whole performance suggested that we are on track for a very fine season.

Everyone was happy.

We scurried back to the car, and we learned that we were locked in at second place with Arsenal, who were marginally – alphabetically – ahead of us. I began the long drive home. We heard that Liverpool won 2-0 at home to Manchester City, and we all said nothing.

Nothing at all.

Alan, in the Midlands, had enjoyed a fantastic day. His Bromley had won 2-1 and were, thus, in the draw for the FA Cup Third Round, where they could possibly draw us.

Happy times for Al.

After dropping off my four passengers, I knew I had to recreate a scene, of sorts, from forty years ago to the day.

A Cocteau Twins compilation was set up in my car and I turned it on. I had to skip one song, but there they were; three consecutive songs from “Teasure.”

“Beatrix.”

“Ivo.”

“Otterley.”

It was the perfect end to a fine day.

Next up, a quick jaunt down to Southampton.

See you there.

1 DECEMBER 1984

1 DECEMBER 2024

Tales From Foxes, Tigers And A Stray Dog

Posted on November 28, 2024 by Chris Axon

Leicester City vs. Chelsea : 23 November 2024.

With the latest International Break behind us, real football was back on the agenda.

Leicester City would host Chelsea at the King Power Stadium, with an early kick-off at 12.30pm.

I collected the three amigos – PD, Glenn, Parky – by 7.30am as Storm Bert, don’t laugh, hovered in the background and threatened to upset the weekend. The drive north up the Fosse Way was, for once, a mundane affair, with dull grey skies overhead, pounding rain at times, and the glorious Cotswolds were only able to be glimpsed occasionally. Usually, it’s a grand trip up to Leicester, one of the joys of the football season, but this one was only memorable for the laughs that the four of us generated en route. We had stopped to pick up some rations at Melksham just after collecting Parky, and we had these “on the hoof” to save time. My focus was reaching the away pub, “The Counting House”, as soon as possible. I was hoping to be parked outside it just after 10pm.

Soon into the trip, I learned that Frome Town’s home game against Wimborne was off due to the weather. My focus, this weekend, was to just be on us.

I hit a little traffic nearing the final destination but, unlike the last time that I parked right outside the pub in 2022/23, my Sat Nav sent me right past the King Power Stadium. It felt a little odd to be driving so close to it, past the away entrance too.

I was parked up at 10.15am.

As we approached the boozer – it had opened at 9am and a fair few Chelsea were already inside – we spotted some familiar faces waving to us. Their smiles were wide.

Tom from New Jersey was in town. We last saw him at the very last game before Covid struck; Everton at Stamford Bridge in March 2020, a pre-match in the Eight Bells. He was next to Jimmy and Ian, recently mentioned in recent episodes, and they appeared to be sat at the same table. I wondered if they had been chatting and had realised that they had mutual friends that were soon to arrive. As it happened, it was just by chance that they were sitting close to each other. Pints were acquired and we perched together around a high-top table. It was soon difficult to hear conversations as the pub grew loud with the chants and songs of the – mainly young – pre-match Chelsea crowd.

Thoughts were positive in our little group. I think we all fancied a Chelsea win. I had to remind myself that Enzo Maresca was recently in charge at Leicester. Out of sight – in the Championship – means out of mind, I guess.

There was a little question that Ian – and his son Bobby – and Jimmy asked us, and it involved our two greatest, we thought, right backs; Branislav Ivanovic and Cesar Azpilicueta.

“Who was the best?”

Ian and I went with Ivanovic, the others with Dave.

There had been discussions about this on the way up in their car.

It was lovely to reflect on some of the great players that have worn our colours. I guess Steve Clarke, Dan Petrescu and Ron Harris would be in the next bracket.

Ah, talking of history, let’s quickly catch-up.

…to continue the 1984/85 season.

Wednesday 21 November 1984.

There would still be no mid-week game for me at Stamford Bridge. On this Wednesday evening, while I was in my college town of Stoke-on-Trent, Chelsea were playing against one of the previous season’s adversaries Manchester City in a League Cup tie down in SW6. We soundly won this game 4-1 in front of a very pleasing gate of 26,364 – let me emphasise how good this was, I was thrilled by it – with a hat-trick from Kerry Dixon and yet another goal from Keith Jones. This match, however, gained immediate notoriety as it featured one of the game’s all-time shocking penalty misses. During the previous twelve months, Chelsea’s lack of prowess from the penalty spot was well known, but it reached a nadir with Pat Nevin’s terrible “pass back in the mud” to City’s young ‘keeper Alex Williams. If you haven’t seen it, track it down, you will be shocked.

I was keen to get inside the stadium and get the inevitably tense “camera / bag / security check” out of the way. Thankfully, I calmly assured the steward who spotted my SLR that “don’t worry, I won’t take any photos” and I was allowed inside.

The concourse at Leicester would soon fill up, and I quickly chose to join Alan, John and Gary inside, down by the corner flag. PD would watch the game a couple of rows behind me, but Glenn and PD were elsewhere in the throng, I knew not where exactly.

Lecester City have grandiose plans to slap an extra tier on the stand that runs along the touchline to our left, but I wonder if they have the fan base to support it. The capacity would, if constructed, reach 40,000.

Our team?

A few surprises.

Sanchez

Fofana – Badiashile – Colwill – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Joao Felix

Jackson

Gary and I ran through the ever-rowing number of players that have, recently, played for Leicester and then us.

Ngolo Kante

Danny Drinkwater

Ben Chilwell

Wesley Fofana

Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall

Of course, I remember Dennis Rofe.

The far side of the stadium was decorated with mosaics celebrating the one-hundred and forty years of the home club.

“Fosse to City. 140 Years of History”.

I soon spotted my Foxes mate Sally who sits in the far corner at all home games.

We always seem to have a good sing-song at Leicester these days, and as the game began, this was no exception. It was a very decent start in fact. Chelsea, in all white, and attacking that far end, absolutely hogged the ball as the first few moments and then minutes passed. The home team did not cause a threat offensively.

At all.

I was happy with our start, as were the noisemakers around me. The contrast between the away quadrant and the home fans close by was stark.

“The Leicester lot are quiet for a change, Gal.”

The former Tottenham player Harry Winks – nicely booed by us at the start, good work – was substituted early on after a knock.

I had already decided that the Leicester City defender Wout Faes was a lesser Fabricio Coloccini, and a much-lesser David Luiz.

We absolutely dominated.

After a couple of attacks, I found myself jotting a few notes on my phone. I looked up at just the right time, and saw a long clearance being chased by Nicolas Jackson but with Faes in proximity. However, the defender seemed to be chasing shadows, or maybe even the wrong ball and the wrong striker. As play developed, Jackson’s perseverance was rewarded.

He was un-Faesed.

After a fortuitous bobble, and with a deft flick of the boot, Jackson fought of a late challenge from Caleb Oko and skilfully lifted the ball past the home ‘keeper Mads Hermansen and into the goal.

Get in.

The away end roared, and I stabbed a quick fist-pump into the air.

“Great goal, Gal.”

I thought Leicester were awful, and their passing especially so. They defended deep, but simply could not muster together any coherent passes if they ever regained the ball. The home crowd were still so quiet.

A wild tackle on Cole Palmer warranted only a yellow card.

Palmer, involved at times but often quiet thus far, often has the appearance of a stray dog. It is a fine quality of his to wander into spaces, away from the pack, unconfined, unperturbed, free from others, and then suddenly become involved at the merest hint of a chance to exploit space.

I invented my own little nickname for him at Leicester.

“Go on the stray dog.”

He is, after all, a long way from Manchester now.

A succession of awful tackles riled the away support further and the atmosphere was stirred. The noise increased.

Madueke sent a curler goalwards, and then had a goal chalked off for offside, which was soon confirmed via VAR.

I spotted that Enzo, so often the subject of dismay at best and derision at worst, was enjoying a very fine game, breaking up play, pressing well, passing well.

“Leicester really are shite, Gal.”

Joao Felix lit up the play with a couple of lovely touches but struggled at times to integrate.

Another stray dog, but without the bite, perhaps.

A couple of passes from Palmer allowed in others, but our shooting was off. Just as it looked like the home team would go the entire half without a single effort of note, with Jamie Vardy looking so quiet, a couple of late chances stirred the home team. Kasey McAteer, whoever he is, mis-fired heroically and how we laughed.

Chelsea missed a fine chance after a delayed corner, a strong leap, but a header that flew wide.

Then, a fine break, Jackson to Madueke, but a fine block from the ‘keeper.

Ugh.

At half-time, I spotted of all the variously coloured flags that are oddly draped on support struts at the back of the stands at Leicester. They appear all the way around the circumference of the stadium, par the away end, just under the roof. They reminded me of the multi-coloured pennants that coach drivers in the ‘seventies used to buy and use to adorn the inside of their vehicles.

Llandudno. Penzance. Weymouth. Blackpool. Tenby. Great Yarmouth. Whitby.

It’s a very odd feature. Unique. Not so sure I understand it though, because all of the flags are bunched up, unable to be properly read.

The second-half started and there was, very soon, a quick break down the middle. Joao Felix set up Jackson, but the ‘keeper saved. The follow-up ran to Palmer whose shot struck Madueke on its way to the target, with Noni’s soft-shoe-shuffle unable to stop the ball hitting him. The ball spun out for a goal-kick.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but I admired the honest smile, maybe even a grin, that swept over Palmer’s face. It’s just so refreshing to see a lad enjoy his football in the way that he does.

We still dominated the entire game. Over on the far side, the Leicester manager Steve Cooper looked perplexed. It ate away at me, however, that a single chance could so easily be gifted to the home team and our domination could count for nought.

We ploughed on as the dull skies darkened.

On many occasions, the away corner was able to witness the burgeoning relationship between Palmer and Madueke. I remember, with pleasure, a “no look” pass back from Noni to Jackson. An Enzo shot from outside the box fizzed wide.

With fifteen minutes to go, a cross from the energetic and industrious Marc Cucarella – loved at Chelsea now – found the head of Jackson, but Hermansen foiled him. Luckily for us, the ball rebounded nicely for Enzo to nod home.

The Chelsea end exploded again.

Enzo’s slide towards the corner flag was joyous, but it could have been so much better had he done it in front of us and not in front of Kevin and Sally from Hinckley, Paul and Steve from Loughborough, Aggy from Ashby-de-la-Zouch and Nobby from Narborough.

“Safe now, Gal.”

The away support ran through a few familiar songs of faith and devotion.

“We all follow the Chelsea…”

“Palmer again.”

“Until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.”

Some changes on eighty-one minutes.

Christopher Nkunku for Joao Felix.

Romeo Lavia for Caicedo.

It surprised me that Caicedo was taken off, but it was perhaps a sign of how well Enzo, the player, was faring.

More changes.

Jadon Sancho for Madueke.

Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall for Jackson.

Just as it was looking a plain-sailing 2-0 win, an easy one, Romeo Lavia was adjudged to have clipped the heel of Bobby De Cordova-Reid as he ventured inside our box. After some confusion, VAR confirmed a penalty and Jordan Ayew steered the spot-kick home.

A late late scare?

Not really.

We held on for the last couple of minutes of the five added minutes.

Lovely stuff.

We were mired in slow-moving traffic as we attempted our getaway. For the first time, I drove right past Welford Road, the home of the famous Leicester Tigers, and it felt odd to be driving past that stadium too. As I edged out, I spotted at a large brick wall that was decorated by a huge sprayed-on image of three foxes grappling with the FA Cup, a reminder of a recent game in the combined histories of our two clubs.

On a slow-moving stretch of the main road out to the ring road, in the space of a few minutes, we spotted Rich from Swindon, stopped by the side of the road and attempting to repair a puncture…we then spotted an Ellison’s coach, windows blackened, that almost certainly contained the Chelsea team en route back to London…and as we were stopped in traffic behind a BMW, we watched as a bloke got out of the rear passenger seats and opened-up the boot to retrieve something…it was none other than Joe Cole.

It made our day.

It was a long old trip home. I battled the inclement weather, Storm Bert et al, and while the others slept, I played some soothing music and prayed that the rain would stop.

I was back in Frome at just after 7pm.

It had been a good day.

Tales From Two Trips

Posted on November 2, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 27 October 2024.

This was the oldest fixture in my particular book of Chelsea games. My first-ever game was Newcastle United at home in March 1974. This one would be my forty-third such fixture. In all of those previous forty-two matches, Newcastle’s record at Stamford Bridge has been wretched.

Chelsea have absolutely dominated this fixture.

Won : 28

Drew : 10

Lost : 4

Unlike my record at Anfield the previous Sunday, this was championship form.

With a 2pm kick-off at HQ, we were headed to Stamford Bridge once again. At 7am, I collected PD and Glenn. Alas, Parky was unable to join us on this occasion.

This was would be home game number 878. If I stop and think about the magnitude of those numbers, I feel slightly light-headed.

For a change, I drove up via the “southerly-route” to London, skirting Warminster, over Salisbury Plain, past Stonehenge, onto the A303, onto the M3 and in to London itself, past Twickenham, past Rosslyn Park rugby, past the Marc Bolan memorial at Barnes, and over Putney Bridge, where I dropped the lads off at around 9.10am. I was parked up at 9.20am, just two-and-a-half hours after leaving my house in Somerset.

There was a quick breakfast at “Café Ole”, and I then joined PD and Glenn in “The Eight Bells” at just after the 10am opening time.

During the Anfield report last week, there was talk of PD and Glenn and the Southampton away game in 1984. That loss, on the back of another loss against Watford and a draw at Millwall, meant that I was starting to get a little concerned about our form. Whereas we had stormed to promotion from the Second Division previous season, our early 1984/85 performances were rather mixed.

Forty years ago, again to the day, on Saturday 27 October 1984, Chelsea played Ipswich Town in a First Division game at Stamford Bridge. Thankfully, we won this one 2-0 in front of 19,213. I didn’t attend this one. I spent the day in Stoke, and heard about Kerry Dixon’s two second-half goals on my pocket radio. Darren Wood, one of only two signings since the previous campaign, made his debut in this match. On the same afternoon, Everton beat Manchester United 5-0 at Goodison, and the football world sat up and took notice. They had won the FA Cup against Watford in May and were starting to impress.

Soon after I arrived in the pub, the first of a few mates called in. Johnny Twelve, from Long Beach in California, fresh from the game in Athens, squeezed his considerable frame alongside us. With Johnny a Dodgers fan, and me a – rather lapsed – Yankee fan, there was a little talk of the World Series which was being played out in Southern California and the South Bronx.

Luke called by. Then Jimmy The Greek, full of interesting tales of his recent holiday in Sicily. Then, Tim from Melbourne, deep down in the Southern Hemisphere, accompanied by his mate Nigel from the slightly nearer Southern reaches of Merton. It was fantastic to see Tim again – another Yankee fan – after a few years. Glenn and I had met him over in Perth for our game in 2018.

Next to arrive was Rob from Hersham. I was only with Rob last Tuesday. He had driven down to Frome with two mates to attend the Frome Town vs. Walton & Hersham game. I met up with them in an old hostelry in the town centre and we then watched a thoroughly entertaining match. Frome went 1-0 up, only for the away team to equalise and then go ahead. As the fog descended, Frome kept going with dogged perseverance and, backed by the noisiest crowd this season, grabbed a deserved equaliser via Curtis Hutson. The gate was only 294, but the noise of the crowd and the commitment of the players produced a life-affirming moment. The clawing fog added to the drama. I really enjoyed this match.

This was followed by an away game on the Saturday at Merthyr Tydfil in South Wales. Pen-y-Darren Park, which hosted Football League football in the ‘twenties, has been on my list of “must-do” football venues for a while. On a gorgeous autumnal day, I appreciated the drive over the new Severn Bridge and the drive alongside the River Taff – parts of the scenery reminded me of a few drives through Appalachia – and I enjoyed the stadium even more. It is a beauty, and a monster of the non-league scene.

Believe it or not, as the weekend was approaching, I mentioned to a few close friends that I had been looking forward, in all honesty, to the trip to Pen-y-Darren Park more than the trip to Stamford Bridge. I am not sure if it shocked me, but I think it shocked them.

This was to be visit #1 versus visit #878, after all.

I think that helps to explain it a little.

Alas, Frome succumbed to four second-half goals to lose 0-4, and to cause more tremors of concern for our future in our current division. As if to rub salt in the fresh wounds, I had to endure “Liquidator” as we exited the deep terraces of that classic non-league ground. The locals had been friendly enough, though. Walking back to the car, I chatted to two Merthyr stalwarts about the game and as I stopped to get inside my car, one of the old chaps offered me a few “Roses” chocolates for the return drive home. You don’t get that at West Ham or Tottenham.

Rob and Johnny Twelve were joined by the other Rob – they come as a pair, these two lads – and Jimmy was joined by Doncaster Paul and his son. Lastly, Josh from Minneapolis appeared for one last pint before it was time to leave.

The more the merrier, I say.

At just after 1pm, were soon on the District Line train to Fulham Broadway.

This was another beautiful day, and the sunshine was a lovely addition. There were a few noisy Geordies making their way to the away section as I made my way in. I reached my seats at 1.40pm, just right.

This was a busy day of football in the nation’s capital.

Arsenal vs. Liverpool.

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United.

Crystal Palace vs. Tottenham Hotspur.

West Ham United vs. Manchester United.

London’s five biggest teams, plus the powerhouses from the north-west. I have a feeling that this series of fixtures would not have been similarly scheduled forty years ago.

Our team?

Sanchez, Gusto, James, Chilwell, Fofana, Lavia, Caicedo, Madueke, Palmer, Neto, Jackson.

Of course, the big surprise was seeing Reece James at left-back.

In the away team were our former players Lewis Hall and Tino Livramento.

The usual three songs were played.

“London Calling.”

“Park Life.”

“Liquidator.”

The twenty-eighth anniversary of the passing of Matthew Harding occurred during the week and so a large flag was displayed in the stand that bears his name.

RIP Matthew.

Never Forgotten.

At 2pm on a beautiful Sunday in SW6, the game began.

Soon in to the game, there was advice from Alan sitting alongside me to Noni Madueke, who had been set up by Nicolas Jackson.

“Cut inside and ping it.”

The shot was fired at the ‘keeper Nick Pope.

Soon after, just as PD and Alan were reminiscing about Phil Driver and his best-ever Chelsea performance in the 6-0 win against the Geordies in 1980, Jackson slid the ball to Cole Palmer, who – from a difficult angle – managed to gently steer a low shot in off the far post.

I celebrated, I took photos of the celebrations, but Alan was stalling his celebrations for the moment.

VAR.

A wait.

No goal.

Hmmmppphhh.

It annoyed me that a detailed explanation of the VAR decision appeared on the TV screens a full ten minutes after the event.

Not to worry, we were playing well and dominating the game.

On eighteen minutes, I was watching through my camera lens and was able to take a succession of key photos as a dreamlike move developed. Malo Gusto won the ball and played it to Palmer. Our kingpin, our sublime orchestrator, turned and soon spotted the forward movement of Pedro Neto. His pass dissected not only two Newcastle defenders but the space-time continuum. In fact, the space-time continuum has still not recovered, and has been scratching its head ever since. The ball was played to perfection. However, Neto needed to ride a possibly wild tackle from Fabian Schar and then took one touch before gliding the ball across the penalty box, thankfully devoid of defenders, and the perfectly-time run of Jackson resulted in a solid first time prod into goal.

GET IN.

The talk of 1980 had probably been working away subconsciously, because I immediately likened it to the Gary Chivers goal, played along vaguely similar lines, from that 6-0 game in October 1980.

Alan and I were bubbling over.

“They’ll have to come at us now, pet.”

“Come on my little diamonds.”

Newcastle briefly threatened, but we kept going. Neto shot at Pope, and then did ever so well to dig out a cross that Gusto failed to convert.

The away team improved a little and enjoyed a few chances, and just after the half-hour mark we allowed the Newcastle team far too much space. A move developed down below me. Harvey Barnes passed to Hall and his low cross was touched home by Alexander Isak, who had not been spotted by Reece James. Had the captain, recently under fire, switched off? It would appear so.

Bollocks.

VAR could not save us.

It took over ten minutes for the explanation of that decision to appear on the TV screen.

I loved the way that Moises Caicedo won a tackle, got a give and go with a team mate, and rampaged forward before shooting over. These rare displays of direct football are a nice change to the lateral pass-pass obsession.

If there is space in front, exploit it.

Who can forget that ridiculous touch from Palmer on the half-way line that almost defies description? This was another time/space mystery as he poked a ball past a defender, into space, only for him to carry on with the ball as if the defender was invisible.

What a talent.

During the half, which was extended by a mighty seven minutes, there had been two instances of utterly woeful distribution from Robert Sanchez. I wonder if that man has shares in the company that makes defibrillators.

There was, also, one memorable occasion when he rushed out to head a bouncing ball away, but we all expected the ball to bounce over his head, cartoon-like.

Oh boy.

It was 1-1 and tantalisingly level at the break, though I thought we had edged it.

Soon into the second-half, the impressive Romeo Lavia nicked a ball from a Newcastle player in the centre-circle. Alan had just offered me a bar of chocolate, but a good Chelsea move was developing here. The ball was now at Palmer’s feet, not so far away, and he took off. I had just broken off a chunk of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk, and was just about to pop it into my mouth, when I had a brain flash.

“If we score here, either that chocolate is going to fly out of my mouth or I am going to choke.”

I threw the chocolate to one side.

With that, Palmer nonchalantly drilled the ball in between Pope and post.

GET IN.

What a goal from Cole.

Stamford Bridge was noisy again.

At least I caught his celebrations on film.

Soon after, a fine cross from Noni but a header from Neto hit a post, though I thought that it was excellently saved by Pope at the time.

Madueke drove inside from the right but a shot was saved easily by Pope, who was the busiest ‘keeper at this stage.

There were a couple of substitutions.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Madueke.

Enzo Fernandez for Lavia.

On seventy minutes, it appeared that luck was on our side as a header from Isak ended up at the foot of a Chelsea defender who was on hand to clear. Soon after, a similar goal-bound effort was hacked away too.

Marc Cucarella for Gusto.

Christopher Nknunku for Jackson.

In exactly the same way that I appreciated the songs and chants of encouragement from the Frome die-hards against Walton & Hersham, I loved the fact the Chelsea support reached a crescendo in those last fifteen minutes when we could all see that the away team were searching for a way to get an equaliser. That is what support should be all about.

It’s not rocket science.

Isak, after another “episode” from Sanchez, really should have nabbed that equaliser as he rounded the ‘keeper with an open goal ahead of him. Thankfully, the combined forces of Colwill and Caicedo saved the day.

Stamford Bridge roared its approval.

In the closing moments, nobody around me expected VAR to uphold a penalty decision after Nkunku went down.

No penalty.

In the last moment of drama, deep into a further six minutes of extra time, Joe Willock rose at the far post but his header back across goal was headed dramatically over his own bar by the returning captain, James.

Phew.

On a day of lovely losses for both Tottenham and Manchester United, Chelsea momentarily appeared in fourth place. And although, I had been looking forward to the trip to Merthyr marginally more than the trip to London, there is no doubt that I was more emotionally involved in the Chelsea game than the Frome one. If we had conceded a late equaliser, I would have been crushed.

This was a fine win against Newcastle. All of the plaudits were for Cole Palmer but I loved the way Lavia and Caicedo dominated the midfield. Praise for Jackson too, once again a scorer.

A quiet week lies ahead for me, with no trips to Brislington with Frome nor Newcastle with Chelsea.

I need the rest.

Next up, for me, two aways at Sholing near Southampton and at Old Trafford, near Manchester.

See you in the away ends.

GOAL ONE